


Saunter a Mile in my Shoes

by LoveLettersUnsent



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Adam means well but causes trouble, Angel Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale as a soldier, Beelzebub's Fall, Biblical Scripture References (Abrahamic Religions), Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Crowley's Fall (Good Omens), F/M, Gabriel didn't mean to be a dick, Heaven, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, Pre-Fall (Good Omens), The War in Heaven Didn't go Well for Anyone, but here we are
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-05
Updated: 2020-02-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:35:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 28,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22133398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoveLettersUnsent/pseuds/LoveLettersUnsent
Summary: In War there are no winners, only losers.It was an eternity ago but Aziraphale and Crowley were shaped by their actions in the First War. They're about to learn first hand what the other did that fateful day - a secret neither has told the other in over 6000 years.Adam was just trying to help, but you know what they say about good intentions... The question is will their friendship survive it? Or will it burn like sulfur for something new to grow in its place?Welcome to the Start times...
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Beelzebub/Gabriel (Good Omens), Hastur & Ligur (Good Omens)
Comments: 174
Kudos: 175





	1. The wisdom of the esteemed Mrs Smithton

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is fully written and will be updated every Tuesday, Thursday, and Sunday.
> 
> Thank you for coming, I hope you all enjoy it!

The world in general may not have ended on the date marked on the various calendars of the assembled hordes of Heaven and Hell, but it was about to end in a very private and very violent way for one Anthony J Crowley, former demon of Hell and current demon of… well, whatever he felt like at the time, really. Retirement suited him rather well, if you had asked him.

How precisely the world ended for Crowley we will go into the details of in a moment, but for now, all you need to know is that at least it was ended by a Professional, or at least someone who had trained their entire life for it. Even though he hadn’t known he was training for it at the time and his entire life was only 11 years long. 

It started, as all the important things do, on a perfectly ordinary afternoon. It was a week before the birthday of Adam Young, the recovering antichrist. The sun-drenched cottage was full and bustling. The Them sat around in the kitchen, taking it in turns to distract the slightly hapless guardian of fresh baked treats, one Newton Pulisfer, and swiping fresh cookies before they cooled. Anathema sat in living room, discussing a book on 16th century witchcraft that Aziraphale had brought over for her to borrow (not have, good Lord no! He’d been looking after this book for 300 years! He wasn’t about to give it _away_ ).

Crowley sat on the windowsill overlooking the back garden, sprawled in such a way that he took up entirely too much room for a man that skinny. He sipped a glass of wine that hadn’t gone down all afternoon despite the steady rate in which he was drinking it and narrowed his eyes over his sunglasses at the figures bowed over the tome. Or, specifically, at the angel currently trying to get Anathema to wear cotton gloves.

Upon realising that his glower was going unnoticed, he tutted theatrically loudly then turned away when they both looked up, bending over to inspect a small potted flower on the sill. “Come on, is that any way to present yourself?” He hissed at the plant, “Your owner helped sssave you and the rest of this poxy world, and that’sss,” he jeered poking at a bright purple flower with a couple of wilted petals, “the best you can do? I’d be embarrassed putting out a flower like that, let me tell you-”

“Really, Crowley, I’m not sure what’s going on with you, but there’s no reason to take it out on the poor flowers!” Aziraphale stood up, sighing. Crowley scowled at him, ignoring the quivering plant on the sill.

“You call that a flower? It’s barely foliage!” Crowley knew he sounded childish as he muttered and stalked into the kitchen, snatching a cookie before Newton could splutter out a protest. The Them giggled and openly took one each as Crowley slammed the kitchen door and started stomping around the garden. Adam pushed the tray of cookies to the rest of the Them and slipped out after him.

Newton threw his hands up in the air and left them to it, thoroughly defeated.

“What’s up with him?” He said, walking into the living room, where Anathema and Aziraphale were still staring after Crowley.

“Oh, I haven’t the foggiest. He’s been like this for months!” Aziraphale sat down heavily on the sofa, fussing with his cuffs and looking distraught. 

“Like what? Bullying petunias?” Newton said, sitting on the opposite arm of the sofa and nodding towards the still quivering plant. “Seems a bit beneath a d-demon, doesn’t it?” Even after a year of angels, demons, and prophecies being in casual conversation, Newton still started sometimes when he heard himself act as if it was perfectly normal to invite a demon from the Deepest Pit to your cottage for the anti-Christ’s pre-birthday afternoon tea. And his angelic… companion? Friend?

“Oh no, he’s been doing that since the 1960s, I’m just glad he didn’t try it in The Garden.” Aziraphale sighed and looked down at his hands as he wrung them.

Newton caught Anathema’s eye over his head and mouthed ‘Garden?’ Anathema rolled her eyes and pointed to an apple in the fruit bowl on the mantlepiece and made a snake motion with her hand. Newton bit his tongue and looked sheepish.

“This is new.” Aziraphale continued, oblivious to the charade game going on above him. “I just don’t understand! Yes, the apocalypse business was all very frightful, but we sorted it out in the end! With your esteemed help and guidance, of course dears,” he added hastily, patting Anathema’s knee and smiling up at the two of them. “Everything was supposed to go back to normal! Lunch at some little restaurant or another, then back to mine for a few drinks before parting ways for the night. What we’ve always done!”

“Do you not do that anymore?” Anathema said gently, as Newton mouthed, ‘Well that sounds boring,’ over the distressed angel’s head.

“Well, yes, we do, but…” Aziraphale risked a guilty look out of the window, making sure Crowley was well out of earshot. “Oh, I just don’t understand!” He wailed, burying his face in his hands, “He invites me out, then acts quiet and distant, then has the gall to get annoyed when I don’t invite him in! He’s my oldest friend, but he’s quite dreadful company lately!”

“Ah.” Anathema looked down, biting her lip as Newton raised his eyebrows. “So, you haven’t, um… you haven’t got any closer, since the world not ending?” She asked gently, visibly distressed that she had to say anything at all.

“Closer? Closer to what?” Aziraphale blinked up at her, eyes wide and impossibly blue.

\--------

Meanwhile, Adam was following Crowley around the garden, ignoring the demon’s protests at having to talk to a child. “I just don’t understand why you couldn’t come on my actual birthday.”

Crowley, sighed, resigning to the fact that he’s set up the perfect moment to mope, only for it to shattered at the last minute by the most dangerous child in the universe. Not because of the residual anti-Christness, of course not, that Crowley still believed (at that moment) he could deal with, but because he was bloody curious and stubborn. Reminded the fallen angel far too much like his younger self for him to be entirely comfortable with. “Weeeeell,” He said, spinning on his heel and bending down to face Adam, “your parents are going to find it bloody odd that two middle aged men from London have suddenly taken an interest in their pre-pubescent son, hey, aren’t they?”

Adam seemed to be contemplating this for a moment, before deciding he was right and continuing as if Crowley hadn’t said anything at all. Crowley groaned, now he reminded him of a certain angel he was definitely not talking to right now, for…reasons. Important reasons! “I could’ve explained… something!” Adam stared with confidence that he had no right to as he clearly had no idea what he would have told his parents. “Maybe we can set something up for next year? I’m sure we can come up with something!”

“Yeah, we wouldn’t want to rush things now, would we?” Crowley muttered, adding, “It’s only been 6000 bloody years,” as quiet as a breath afterwards. Which of course, Adam heard, because Crowley was sure at this point that he was cursed.

“Oh, is this about Aziraphale?” Adam’s face suddenly brightened as he figured it out.

“Sssssshush!” Crowley clamped his hand over Adam’s mouth, hissing as he stared in fear at the cottage.

Adam mumbled something against his palm, trying to tug his head away from the grip, then, as Crowley made no move to let go, he licked the demon’s palm for good measure. Crowley snatched his hand away as if it had been burnt, made an aborted move to wipe it off on his trousers, thought better of it, then wiped it roughly on Adam’s sleeve instead. Adam giggled and shook him off before repeating what he’d tried to say before, “Are you guys not friends anymore?”

Crowley glared at him, “Yesss, of course we’re friends! Just like we’ve always been… we’re… exactly the same.” Crowley’s shoulders drooped as he realised he was going to have to talk to an 11-year-old boy about his lo-like life. Or lack thereof. 

Adam looked confused, head cocked to one side, watching Crowley’s face shift as he tried to work out what to say to him that would stop the questions without actually telling him anything. The way all adults talk to children, and the way no child has ever been fooled by.

“Weeeell…” Crowley closed his mouth with a click, sighed then realised the only way Adam would be satisfied was if he was honest. Or at least partly honest. So, he reluctantly continued, “We’re doing everything we did before we both… quit? Yeah, quit our jobs. And now we have more time, I thought, well, I thought that, you know, we’d do… other stuff.” He finished lamely, sticking his hands in his pockets and oh yeah, he realised, he was definitely sulking now. 

“Oh! I know what’s happening!” Adam jumped up.

“I am 100% sure you don’t.” Crowley deadpanned as his stomach plummeted.

Adam rolled his eyes, “You want to play a new game, but Aziraphale doesn’t.”

Crowley grimaced, “See, I told you – no, wait, that is kind of it, yeah.”

“Did you tell him you were bored of the old game?” Adam asked in such a way Crowley half expected him to pull out a questionnaire on a clipboard.

“I’m not bored of it!” Crowley snapped, defensively.

“Have you told him.” Adam said slowly, punctuating each word.

“I tried to, but he didn’t really listen. He does that sometimes.” Crowley said softly to himself. “Just hears what he expects to hear.”

“Then we just have to get him to listen!” Adam said sternly, making up his mind and marching back towards the cottage.

Crowley scrambled to catch up with him, terrified of what well-meant disaster was about to occur. “WAIT! Waitwaitwait! I said, wait!” He grabbed his arm, not roughly, just…firmly.

“Well, if you don’t want to talk to him, how else will you fix it?” Adam asked, infuriatingly matter-of-factly, shaking Crowley off his arm.

“I can’t very well walk in there and say, ‘Oi, Angel, try seeing things my way for a bit, will ya?’ Can I!” He half shouted in that special whisper shout that isn’t very quiet at all but feels like people shouldn’t be able to hear it. “…Can I?” He muttered to himself, suddenly sounding doubtful.

“Mrs Smithton at school says that the only way to resolve an argument is to try and find some common ground. What’s yours?” Adam said, crossing his arms, looking like he was starting to lose his patience.

Crowley looked slightly taken aback at the speed at which the boy could change his mood. “C-common ground? I’m a Demon and he’s a-a-an Angel! We haven’t had any ‘common ground’ since before the Fall! And we even have very different experiences of that, too!”

Adam was definitely bored now, the answer was so obvious, how did Crowley not see it? Wasn’t he supposed to be a grown up? And an immortal one at that, so that makes him a super-super grown up, right?

“So, before this fall was the last time you guys were similar?” Adam looked quizzically at the cottage.

“Yes… I guess so…” Crowley was lost in memories for a second, the thoughts of his life in Heaven had been so deeply buried that they hit like a freight train if they happened to pop up at an odd time.

“Mrs Smithton said something else, too…” Adam said slowly.

“Oh, please regale me with more wisdom of the esteemed Mrs Smithton!” Crowley groused, thinking of Heaven always made his skin itch.

Adam was past bored of this now, and he deadpanned, “She said that if you want to understand someone you had to walk a mile in their shoes-”

“-Oh I understand Aziraphale plenty-”

“-Not you, him!” Adam stamped his foot, now officially annoyed that Crowley wasn’t listening to him.

There was a crash from inside the cottage.

Crowley felt something cold wash over him.

He sprinted back to the cottage.

Anathema, Newton, and the Them stood around a smashed teacup in the middle of the floor, mouths open in shock as they stared at the unconscious form of Aziraphale lying on the couch.

That’s when Crowley realised it wasn’t something cold washing over him, but something warm leaving him.

His corporation was still here, but Aziraphale was gone.


	2. I don’t think we’re in Tadfield anymore, Toto

Aziraphale woke to the startling realisation that he’d been sleeping. Angels could sleep, of course, but he considered it a frightful waste of time and really didn’t understand Crowley’s affection for being so… vulnerable. Oh, he’d napped from time to time, a few hours here, a few hours there, once a century or so, but he always woke disorientated and feeling like he was doing something frightfully important but with no idea what it was.

Crowley explained that this was just the aftereffects of dreams, and well, Aziraphale didn’t understand why anyone would enjoy that sort of feeling.

He had it now. 

He still hated it.

Opening his eyes, he blinked up at the ceiling. He frowned. Wasn’t he at Anathema’s cottage a minute ago? Instead of modern oak beams tastefully distressed to look like original features as he was expecting, he was peering into vaulted white ceilings, the arches delicately laced with small silver flowers.

He looked around. It looked like he had been sleeping on a low divan to the side of a large open and airy white room. He frowned. Again. “I don’t think we’re in Tadfield anymore, Toto.” He murmured to no one in particular, sitting up and peering around to try and figure out where he was.

There was a familiar taste to the air, something that pulled at his memories that he couldn’t quite place. Something warm and homey, but subtle and sweet, like if vanilla had personality. He knew that he knew it, but he couldn’t quite recall where from. It was quite vexing.

“I do hope Crowley and the others are alright.” He murmured, trying to push away the anxious fear of him not being the only one that was spirited away by Unseen Forces. 

“Crowley?” He called, a shiver running up his spine as the sound seemed to die the moment it left his lips, the silence filling the room refusing to be moved.

He carefully considered the space around him. Something felt off but he couldn’t figure out what it was. Like a word stuck on the tip of your tongue, just as you think you have it your mouth refuses to form the sound and you’re left red faced and frowning at your own tongue. It certainly didn’t feel like Hell, that much was certain. But Heaven didn’t feel like this… Heaven over the last few millennia had been slowly growing staler. The never used air covered with artificial sweetness that coated the back of his throat and made him gag. But it certainly didn’t feel like Earth. There was no hustle and bustle of life. Even an empty room contains thousands of living beings, too minute for humans to see or bother with. But giving everything a sheen of life, a feeling of reality.

This room lacked the hallmarks of all three, leaving Aziraphale quite perplexed.

A quick glance outside the only doorway he could see revealed a long corridor. Just as he was debating which direction to start his search for an exit, he heard a soft tinkle of gentle notes. Automatically his feet set off in the direction of the music.

The closer he got the more of the melody he could pick up. He gasped softly to himself. 

It was beautiful.

Nearing an open doorway at the end of the corridor Aziraphale had been close enough to clearly identify the clear melodious sound of a harp being played with unearthly skill, so he wasn’t surprised when he saw the harp being played on the dais at one end of a modest set of rooms. 

Aziraphale stood transfixed.

The music surrounded him, gentle and soft, notes dancing through the air as if alive. Tree blossoms on a spring breeze, falling around you like unmelting snow. Completely wordless the song sang to the principality, images of light being born in dark places, a flicker that can be tended and nursed to a garden of stars, a smudge across the sky stealing the breaths of anyone who saw it, no matter how many millions of light years away they might be. A steady warm glow that travelled to those who needed it, across time and space. A flicker that sprang to action and faded until needed again. 

From the doorway Aziraphale could only see the musician’s back. But what he saw confirmed the suspicion that he’d had since he’d spotted the silver flowers on the ceiling arches. Giant angel wings didn’t leave much else to the imagination.

He was in Heaven.

Oh, but what wings they were. Beautifully white, pure as new fallen snow, long graceful feathers tinged with a silvery glow, as if the edges had been soaked in starlight. Coupled with the music still singing soothingly along his senses, he must have wandered into the rooms of the Star Hangers. Which explained why this part of Heaven didn’t feel as overcrowded and artificial as Head Office.

The Star Hangers were an odd lot amongst the choirs of Heaven. They were loners, even to each other, content to wander the outer universe spinning stars and nebula to their own whims. The result was that no two stars were ever similar, shapes and colours bearing the hallmarks of their creators, each galaxy dictated by the imagination and emotions of that day. Aziraphale had smiled over a copy of the Evening Standard that had been left in his shop once, the front page showing new photographs taken of a far-flung star had revealed it to be two stars spinning in a tight orbit of each other. Neither being the centre to the other, caught in an endless spinning dance where the participants never touched. He had smiled and thought to seek out whoever it was that came up with that little delight hidden in the skies next time he had cause to visit Head Office. Such beauty and mischief needed to be acknowledged, after all. 

The figure on the dais bent over their harp as the song entered the final stages. Aziraphale felt his pulse quicken with the notes as they rose and clashed, the stars in his mind’s eye swelling and bursting, giant supernovas that stilled and coalesced into tiny sparks waiting for a Star Hanger’s gentle hand to grow and spin once more. The player’s wings vibrated with effort of keeping up with the music, swinging back and forth as hands danced across the strings. Nestled between the wings was a tumble of bright red curls, a few strands caught on the edges of softly trembling feathers, the single strands of red so vibrant they stood out even across the room. 

Aziraphale was glad that he technically didn’t need to breathe as he was fairly certain that he hadn’t dared to ever since he had stopped in the doorway. He knew he should announce himself, rather than spying on the poor dear, but he just couldn’t bring himself to stop them from playing. Call him selfish, if you must, but to stop such beautiful music truly would be a Sin.

A knock on the door startled the player into instant silence. Aziraphale span on his heel, incensed at the sheer gall of someone to interrupt.

A stocky angel grinned from the doorway, wings barely cresting above the straight shock of mousy blond hair.

The Star Hanger at the harp must have turned around because he called out with a chuckle to the interloper into Aziraphale’s private performance. 

“Hashmal! Time to leave already?” A light cheerful voice called from over his shoulder.

Aziraphale suddenly flushed, realising he was now standing in the middle of the room like a fool. “Oh, I am so sorry, I seem to be rather lost–”

His stammering was cut short as the angel in the doorway stepped into the room. And through him.

Left stunned facing the door Aziraphale’s mind whirled. Had he been discorperated? But how? He was only drinking a cup of tea, for Her sake! Could tea be poisoned enough to instantly kill an Angel? That seemed unlikely… Maybe some sort of demonic curse? But then why would he end up in Heaven, and Hell had agreed to leave them alone for-

“-anyway, Samael tasked me to make sure you were there tonight, said he liked the way you thought, and I told him he could trust me to bring interesting people and-”

His thoughts skidded to a halt. Samael. “It can’t be.” He whispered, fear shooting down his spine like lightning. “He cast off that name eons ago, before the Fall-” He whispered as he turned again, to see if the angel Hashmal was making some sort of cruel joke.

He looked up and looked straight into the face of the Star Hanger that had played such passionate and beautiful music. 

And met the gleaming gold gaze that he could never fail to recognise, no matter how different the wings that bore them, or the absence of slender serpentine slits. He had been stumbling across their owner in every guise humanity had to offer since the Garden, after all. Gold eyes, from corner to corner, no pupil to break the endless shine, a galaxy of golden starstuff framed by the sharp angles of fine cheekbones surrounded by unmistakable fiery red curls.

“Crowley.” The name fell from Aziraphale’s lips like a prayer.

The two angels walked towards the door, Hashmal talking excitedly, “Oh, Samael told me that he really liked that question you asked about-”

Crowley smiled as he walked through Azirapahle, a shadow of the past that the angel had often wondered about but never dared to ask his oldest friend about. 

“Who were you before me? How did you come to be who you are now?”

And the last question, his most secret wondering, kept buried in his heart and only brought out for the darkest nights when he hadn’t seen his dearest friend in decades. “What did you lose in the Fall?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd love to know when you figured out who it was... Drop me a comment below! <3


	3. Not exactly a stickler for the rules, is he?

Aziraphale tried very, very hard not to panic. “You two can’t hear me, can you?” He called out, flapping his hand in front of past-Crowley’s face. Crowley’s eyes slid through him as he kept walking through the halls of Heaven-that-was. Walking backwards, Aziraphale stumbled and Crowley swept through him, his measured steps small, but quick. Spine ramrod straight as he marched through the halls of Heaven, white wings bobbing along behind him.

His hips remained perpendicular to his spine at all times, Aziraphale shivered at how odd that looked on his dear serpentine friend.

Worrying his cufflinks Aziraphale tried to make sense of what was happening. “I’ve clearly been transported to the past – no, wait. Not transported.” He held his hand up to the light and shivered as he could seem through it, his flesh translucent like he had been discorporated, unpleasant memories of plummeting from Heaven to a sticky Soho pub and consoling a soon-to-be very drunk Crowley. The fact he had consoled the demon about the death of his own self was merely one of the less confusing conversations they’d had in recent years. 

With a start he realised Crowley had kept walking, leaving him alone in a corridor that didn’t even exist anymore, if he remembered correctly.

He turned, wanting to head anywhere that Crowley wasn’t. Logically he knew that the fact the first angel he encountered in this strange echo of the past was his oldest and dearest friend could never be a coincidence. Whatever was happening to him, Crowley was clearly meant to be the focal point. He knew this but couldn’t shake the fact that seeing Crowley as an angel was making him extremely uncomfortable. Crowley had never, in the 6001 years Aziraphale had known him, talked about his life before his Fall, and Aziraphale truly felt that he was all but betraying his friend by seeing him like this. It was Crowley’s place to tell him about his past, and only if he wanted to. Wandering through his past like this felt like the rudest form of prying.

No sooner had he thought this, his feet moved on their own again, causing the rest of him to lurch to keep balanced. He was automatically pulled after Crowley.

He quickly smothered the thought that this was all a little on the nose.

Feet thoroughly refusing to listen to him, he found himself jogging slightly to catch up with the two angels. 

Well, that answers the question of what he was doing here. Clearly someone wanted him to see Crowley like this. For the sake of their friendship he hoped it was Crowley, but he knew in his heart that this wasn’t the case. Some wounds never closed. Aziraphale had often wondered what it would feel like to Fall. Between his growing and enduring friendship with a Demon and actively trying to defy the Great Plan and save the world against Heaven’s wishes, he had known what he was risking. 

There was a reason why he detested sleeping. Some guilt can’t be held back whilst unconscious. 

He followed them through the twisting corridors and halls of Heaven. Aziraphale was torn between gawking at everything and trying to keep his eyes firmly on his feet.

This was Heaven before the War. Before the Rebel angels had Fallen. When the Host stood united and no one knew what violence even was. Everything he saw was beautiful beyond compare, it made his heart soar. And then he would remember the clinical staleness of Heaven as it is now, how its perfection felt artificial and forced, not organic and so very full of life like the Heaven around him. And his heart broke for what had been lost. The War had been won, the Rebel angels cast out to the Pits, but the violence and hatred had settled on everything they had left behind. A thin veil of corruption that had tainted Heaven in a way that no one really noticed but everyone felt. 

They passed the cream coloured domes of the hall that would one day become the overbearing tower of Head Office. The walls stood only a story or two tall, curving into an elegant dome, covered in the same thin vines of the room he had woken up in, but these were sprinkled with small gold flowers that glittered and shone in the steady clear sunlight.

As they passed the open doors the sound of singing poured out. Aziraphale shook his head sadly. He had forgotten how full of music Heaven had been. (Rather than how it was now, the halls only filled with the Sound of Music. “Whiskers on kittens”, indeed…) He felt his breath catch in his throat as the music swelled and couldn’t help but glance inside. Stood in the centre of the hall was a gathering of the Host singing in beautiful harmony. The different voices mingled and rose around each other. Dancing in a way that the angel’s physical bodies never could. After a few moments the sound of main choir dipped away, leaving two angels singing a stirring duet in the centre of the room.

Aziraphale stopped in his tracks, stunned. 

Gabriel’s voice was strong but soft, reassuring and fortifying. Nothing like the abrasive and patronising tone Aziraphale had endured for so many millennia. The change was astounding. The song drew to a crescendo and Gabriel beamed. Full on grinned. A true, happy, genuine smile. Aziraphale felt his heart tug in his chest. What had happened to turn this Archangel, who was embracing his brothers and singing with such clear and honest joy, into the snide and petty boss that would destroy the world without a second thought simply because that was on his ‘to do’ list that day?

Around his strong baritone voice curved a soft and lilting melody, the second singer in the duet. She was a shorter angel, black hair swinging as she swayed with the music, the joy of it causing her to move around the room. She smiled and darted around Gabriel as he sang, and he grinned and followed her movements, his face soft, playful and open.

Realising with a start that he hadn’t moved in a few moments Aziraphale turned around to see Crowley and the angel he had called Hashmel standing and waiting a few steps away. As he looked back at them Hashmel yanked Crowley’s arm and said, “Here she comes, let’s get going, we’re going to be late.” 

Turning back, Aziraphale watched as the female angel from Gabriel’s duet had ducked behind a small group of angels leaving the room, clearly attempting to sneak out while Gabriel was distracted. 

Just as she was about to make a break for the door an arm shot out and grabbed her by the back of her robe. There was a very undignified squawk as Gabriel pulled her back in, holding her short form aloft as she crossed her arms and mock-pouted. Aziraphale felt a surge of fear as he realised that this was when Gabriel would show his authority.

Instead of swift retribution Gabriel just mussed up the shorter angel’s long black hair and laughed as she swatted him off of her. They grinned at each other, something about their easy going and familiar air that reminded Aziraphale of himself and Crowley, but before he could examine that thought she had wiggled free and run towards Crowley, once again straight through him. 

“Hey shortstack, how was choir practice?” Crowley ribbed.

“More fun than sitting on my own plucking about with harps all day.” She’d responded with a grin. “Anyway, aren’t we running late?”

“Yes-” Hashmel said the same instant that Crowley said “No-”.

Hashmel glared at Crowley and he sighed, “Technically we’ll be a little late, but it’s just a meet up, not like we’ll be missing out on an actual event or anything.” Hashmel made a noise to protest and Crowley shushed him. “Oh don’t be like that, he’s not exactly a stickler for the rules, is he?” Hashmel fell quiet but still looked put out, and as they started walking, he was moving noticeably faster than before. 

The short newcomer had to half jog to keep up. Crowley kept pace with her, falling behind the other angel. “Hey,” He said suddenly looking at the side of her head “What’s this?”

“Oh!” She turned to him, smiling. “It’s a project I’m working on for Mother, I’m thinking of calling it a ‘Flutterby’ because of how it moves. This one isn’t alive yet, but Mother said that the final version will be!” Aziraphale jogged onto the other side of her to see what they were talking about. Nestled on the side of the young angel’s head was a beautiful butterfly with delicate lavender and deep midnight blue wings.

“A ‘flutterby’ huh? It’s very pretty.” Crowley said with genuine warmth in his voice. 

“I just need to figure out how it grows up…” The short angel said quietly “I’ve got a few plans, but no idea how to make it go from one shape to the other…”

“Different shapes?” Crowley parroted, “That sounds… complicated, Bessial.” He finished, sounding unsure of the plan.

The angel that Aziraphale just learnt was called ‘Bessial’ shrugged her shoulders, “Complicated is good. All the other ‘creature’ plans just have them starting as small and getting bigger. That’s kind of boring. The ‘flutterbys’ are going to have so many different colours and designs-”

Aziraphale let her voice tune out as she started regaling Crowley with descriptions of all the different patterns she was eager to try and stared at the back of Crowley’s head.

He was worried. Very worried.

Not just because he seemed to be stuck in his best friend’s memories of the past, but he was trying very hard not to panic at the thought of Crowley being stuck somewhere in his memories.

Aziraphale knew that whatever happened to Crowley during the war, and by association, his Fall was pretty straight forward. Crowley had told him as much. ‘Asked the wrong questions, sauntered vaguely downwards’, which, as Aziraphale knew Crowley well enough by now to be confident in his translation from ‘Crowley speak’, he knew to mean ‘Asked a lot of very difficult questions loudly and in front of the wrong people before being cast out of Heaven and enduring unspeakable agony for quite a long length of time.’ He wasn’t looking forward to seeing his best friend cast from Heaven in a searing ball of Hell fire, but at least he knew what he was getting in for.

However, if Crowley was stuck in his memories as he was stuck in Crowley’s…

Aziraphale had been created for War. Literally. He was a soldier. And he was somewhere out there now, training with a sword he didn’t understand the need for, filled with training and rules that he hadn’t thought to question yet. He cringed as he remembered how…eager he’d been for a chance to prove himself. So confident and sure of his untested abilities, spoiling for a battle, a fight, a way to cast out the Enemies of God in the Great Defence of Heaven.

It had never occurred to him that in a Creation that only consisted of God and Angels this meant he’d have to draw his sword against his own kind. In all his dreams of being part of The Glory he never once pictured himself fighting his brothers.

He now knew what a fool he had been.

He shuddered. Crowley was about to be forced to watch Aziraphale as he set out to ‘cleanse’ Heaven of the fallen ‘scourge’. An idealistic young soldier born and bred not to ask questions. To follow orders. To kill threats to Heaven without hesitation and without mercy.

All Crowley had ever done was ask questions. He didn’t deserve to see Aziraphale before Eden… During a war he had no idea his future best friend was on the other side of.

He had to think. He had to fix this. He had to find himself, and therefore Crowley, before Crowley was forced to see how Heaven reacted to the Rebel angels.

In hindsight it had been so stupid, so wasteful, so, so… wrong. He had to find Crowley before the demon learnt the truth about the angel Aziraphale had always tried to be.

Of course, Crowley was safely in a cottage over 6000 years in the future, with no idea about anything that wasn’t happening beyond what Adam had told him, but Aziraphale didn’t know that.


	4. Of Infernal Guests and How to Keep Them

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where Crowley sulks, Anathema Schemes, and the Them do what they do best.

Back in the cottage Crowley sat in the living room, awkwardly trying not to look at the prone form of Aziraphale’s corporation next to him. His leg was bouncing with nerves and his mind was racing to find a way to bring Aziraphale back before the angel saw what a colossal fuck up Crowley truly was. Adam and the Them were yelling to Newton in the garden, something about Aziraphale being stuck somewhere called the ‘Upside Down’. He could just about hear Newton trying to explain why Crowley was worried ( _livid_ ) and that the Upside Down wasn’t real. Adam had just retorted that a year ago he would have told him angels and demons weren’t real and there was one of each sitting on his sofa right now.

That was the point where Crowley tuned them out.

Anathema ran back into the living room, dropping a thick stack of books onto the coffee table in front of Crowley. She grabbed one from the middle of the stack and passed it to the demon who was trying very hard not to panic. Well, not to panic even more.

He looked down at the book in his hands. It looked around a hundred and fifty years old and had a suspicious dark brown stain on the corner of the cover. He raised an eyebrow as he read the title out loud, “’Infernal Guests and how to Keep Them: a young woman’s guide to speaking to spirits’, really? This is pulp fiction for bored Victorian housewives. And it’s talking about demons. In case you hadn’t noticed, Aziraphale isn’t a demon, or did you get us mixed up?” He sneered. Demon’s aren’t known for being graceful under pressure, after all.

“I know that,” she sighed. “It’s a cheap publication made by a woman whose husband wanted to make fast money and needed to appeal to a female market so used her name. But there’s a rumour that he got the idea from a transcript of John Dee’s work and-what?” Crowley had sat up at the mention of John Dee’s name and was now flicking through the book with a determined air. “What is it?”

“If it’s anything to do with old Johnny-boy then- ah HA!” Crowley jumped up. “Well, isn’t this cute.” He grinned, turning the book around, one of the open pages showing an intricate set of geometric circles covered in looping symbols. The other page showed a medieval style drawing of a demon. Anathema stared. The demon relaxed back on a throne, scaled wings held high in that strange false flat style from medieval manuscripts that made you wonder if anyone in the century could draw at all. Something about the relaxed way the figure was slunk over the throne made Anathema lean in and, sure enough, almost lost in the crosshatch shading on his face between large black eyes was the tiny mark of the bridge of glasses over his nose. Not eyes, then. Sunglasses. 

She gasped. “This is you? Then the summoning circle works!” she grinned up at him.

Crowley grinned back, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Yes, and no. Yes, it is me, but no, it doesn’t work. Oh, Johnny-boy called out to me and I heard that all right, so I just played along. Stood in his silly circle thingy for a while, pretended I couldn’t leave without bursting into flames, you know, hammed it right up, chatted some cryptic sounding nonsense before getting bored and convincing him to ‘let me go’. The 16th century was pretty hectic what with the whole Catholics Vs Protestants thing, gave me an excuse to bunk off for a week or so. It was a damnation to finally get the smell of burning people out of my hair. Told downstairs that humans had figured out how to summon us and the daft buggers were so scared they barely came top side again for 200 years. So yeah, it’s useless.” He sighed, tossing the book over his shoulder without looking or caring where it landed. 

“I borrowed that from Aziraphale.” Anathema deadpanned.

Crowley yelped, jumping up and spinning round to make sure the book was alright, hissing as he launched himself over the back of the sofa in a mess of wind-milling limbs to retrieve it.

As he furiously tried to straighten out the bent corner that now sat next to the suspicious stain Anathema started taking, her voice quiet and thoughtful as she stared out of the window. “Crowley. There’s no magic that could send Aziraphale into your memories, is there?”

“Huh?” Crowley looked up from the book where his fingers still trying to pinch the cover straight. “Well, obviously there is, because that’s where he is and how he got there. What are you-”

“No, Adam put him there. There’s no way that would be possible otherwise, right?” She said, patience running thin, still staring out of the window to where the Them stood talking to Newton.

Crowley frowned. “No… There’s no spell that can affect an angel or let someone experience memories like that. No matter how powerful you are. Adam could only do it because he’s the bloody anti-Christ and the Rules apparently don’t apply to him.”

“But that’s just it. The rules do apply to him. Well. One rule does.” Anathema locked eyes with a very confused Crowley. “If he believes it, it’s true. That’s all it boils down to. He was given the power to re-write reality so he could destroy the world. But that’s not how he’s using it. He shouldn’t have been able to lock a Principality tier angel in the memories of the Serpent of Eden himself. But he didn’t know that. He believed he could, so he did. It’s that simple.”

Crowley cocked his head to one side, officially confused now. Anathema started pacing as she continued. “Adam doesn’t think he can do things, he knows he can do things. And because he knows he can do it, he just does it. Reality just accepts his Will.”

“What the Heaven are you getting at, here?” Crowley waved his hand in front of her face to stop the pacing.

“The spells don’t have to actually work. We don’t have to find something that actually works.” She said, locking eyes with Crowley. “We just have to convince Adam that it will work, and then it will.” She snatched the book out of Crowley’s hands and flicked through the pages until she found the spell that she needed. “Here. A projection spell.” She turned the book around to show a much simpler magic circle, something that had clearly been designed to allow for half-hearted housewives to be able to copy without too much trouble. Next to the circle were a few items drawn in a box. “We draw the circle, get the ingredients, have you stand in it and do the joke of a ritual outlined in here. Adam just has to believe it and it’ll work.”

Crowley blinked at her. “That’s… that’s devious. I’m impressed! You really think it’s that simple?”

“Absolutely. I gave him a copy of the New Aquarian that talked about aliens and the next day Newton got pulled over by a spaceship on the A-road to Tadfield. Anything Adam believes just…exists. I have all the ingredients, it’s really standard stuff. I’ll get Adam.” And with that she walked through the kitchen and out the back door. 

Crowley looked through the ritual list, an unfamiliar sense of hope starting to creep into his heart.

If he was honest, it kind of stung. Demon heart and all that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only a short one today because next chapter is pretty hefty. Thank you to everyone reading this for coming along this mad caper with me! I hope you're all enjoying the ride!
> 
> Next Chapter: Aziraphale accidentally crashes Creations first secret meeting, and bumps into some familiar faces...


	5. Enter left, God’s most beautiful wayward son

Ducking through a low arch between two buildings that Aziraphale would have walked straight past if it wasn’t for the magic pulling him indelibly towards Crowley, he found himself walking down a short flight of stairs into a high-ceilinged basement. The room was light and airy, and filled with angels from a host of different choirs. Star hangers and stone smiths, creature crafters and plant weavers, angels of the air and gravity, light and souls. They sat mingled in the space in a way Aziraphale had never seen in Heaven. With a frown he realised the only group missing was his – no soldiers or guardians sat amongst the crowd. Something squirmed in his chest. He had always felt apart from the rest of the Host, but he’d always put it down to his own nature, so influenced by humanity that it was. But maybe it ran deeper, a general distrust that the artisans that made up most of the Host felt for those like him that were created only to destroy and defend that which already existed. He shook his head. No, it made sense. This was before the War, after all, the other angels likely had no more idea of the purpose of his brothers than they did. Somewhere Aziraphale knew he was swinging a flaming sword in graceful powerful arcs, leaning stern discipline at the hand of Michael herself, being taught to defend when no concept of attack existed – being taught how to use a short sharp rod of metal when no concept of pain or death or battle was known. How could he ask the rest of the Host to understand him when he understood so little himself?

Crowley and his friends had walked in to warm shouted greetings and someone cleared a low-slung sofa for them. Hashmel was nervous, pulling at the neckline of his robe and never looking away from the door for more than a few seconds. Bessial sat perched on one arm, foot tapping to a tune only she could hear. Aziraphale suspected it was the duet she’d just sang, but he couldn’t quite tell. Crowley sat leaning into the arm of the sofa, ankles crossed neatly to one side, hands folded in his lap. Taking up as little space as possible, prim and proper and so regimentally angelic, so very unlike him, that Aziraphale shivered.

Aziraphale stood to one side, studying the faces in the room, puzzled. He didn’t recognise any of them. Which, sure, wasn’t all that odd as he had been stationed pretty much on his own on Earth for 6000 years, he spent very little time in Heaven outside of his superior’s offices, but he should have seen at least one of them, surely? How likely was it that the only angels he’d recognised so far was Crowley and Gabriel?

A door at the top of a marble staircase swung open and the room immediately shushed. Hashmel sat up ramrod straight, vibrating with nervous energy. A couple of angels came in and checked over the upturned faces of the assembled angels, then nodded and made way for another angel. 

The last figure walked in and sat on the steps as silence fell across the room. One of the two that walked in with him closed the door behind him, and the falling of the latch echoed through the small space.

Samael sank down to sit on the wide white marble steps, arm slung round one of the golden bannisters. Sunlight filtered in from the high set windows and settled in his hair. Aziraphale trembled. He had never seen Samael before the day of the fated apocalypse. Never seen the way that the Grace of God thrummed through him, the way he sat regal, eyes bright and knowing. The rest of the room leaned towards him like leaves turning towards the Sun, and Aziraphale was no more immune to the pull than they. The Lightbringer was a pale moniker for the splendour of God’s most beautiful wayward son.

As the angel that would cause the sundering of the Heavenly Host and birth the pits of Hell relaxed into his perch, the room slowly filled with small sounds. Aziraphale turned back to Crowley, curious to see his friend’s reaction, and raised an eyebrow. Crowley was no longer sitting primly in the corner of his seat. He lounged back with legs spread, shoulders deep in the giving plush of the cushions, wings tucked out of sight, arm thrown over the back in the lazy sprawl that he had seen so often on his own sofa back (or should that be forward?) in Soho, the angelic air was still at odds to what Aziraphale knew, but the posture (or lack thereof) was as Crowley as screaming at plants and speeding in the Bentley. 

Next to him Bessial had slid onto the couch proper, slouched back almost as far as Crowley, feet planted on the floor but forced to sit with her hips too far forwards due to her short legs. 

“Oh. Oh, good Lord.” Aziraphale whispered, staring at her. That posture. He’d seen it before. Whilst standing, chin held high and hips cocked even though fear was shuddering down his spine. In a kangaroo court of demons where he only hope was lying through his teeth and putting on, if you’d forgive him the pun, one Hell of a show. Coupled with the straight black hair, it was suddenly unmistakable. “Beelzebub, it’s you, is it not?” The insect in her hair, the height, it was all so obvious. Aziraphale spun, suddenly seeing the room in a new light. 

Crowley on the sofa, Hashmel with his sandy hair-no, wait, how did he miss it before? He had the same face, it was just missing the filth and the boils, Hastur, sat between him and Beelzebub. Eyes flicking around the room he recognised more faces. Dagon in the back corner, taking attendance on a scroll, even a tiny fellow that reminded him of the poor usher that had been so cruelly dissolved before Aziraphale was so discourteously dunked in holy water himself (as Crowley, of course).

Goosebumps broke out over his skin, the hairs standing on end as he finally realised where he was.

This was the gathering of the rebels prior to the War. He had no way to know how long it would be until that first raid that sparked the first violence in Heaven, and snowballed into the first War in Creation, but this was definitely where it all started. He was casually standing in a cornerstone of history. The calm before the first storm, the last time creation knew true peace because it didn’t know what horror was to destroy it. 

And it was…warm. Peaceful. Friendly. Sure, he could see the fear on some faces. They could all feel that they shouldn’t really be there, but, as Crowley had once said to him – what angel thought they could even do the wrong thing? He felt it, as keenly here as anywhere else he ever had. The simple soft love of being in the company of easy friends. Laughter rang out and angels embraced and talked animatedly. It was happy and pure, and…He choked back a sob. Everyone in this room would soon Fall from Her Grace forever.

And he couldn’t do a damned thing to stop it. 

He suddenly felt very, very small, and very, very alone. He’d been so caught up in watching the events unfold that he’d completely forgotten to try and find a way to escape. He did hope Crowley would forgive him for tarrying in his memories so long. 

“My friends!” Aziraphale was snapped from his thoughts by Samael addressing the room. Silence fell instantly. “It’s good to see so many of you here, and so many new faces!” He smiled broadly, the light radiating so warm, so bright even Aziraphale almost had to look away. “How is everyone?” Awkward silence from the room. “Seriously, I don’t bite! Alright, alright, I can take a hint, enough small talk, I’ll get on with why we gathered here today.” A pause for dramatic effect, Samael apparently knew how to hold a room. “Rumours of the new Gift are true.” Every angel leaned forward, the anticipation in the room causing Aziraphale to hold a breath he didn’t need to take. “Our Lord and Mother is calling it ‘Free Will’ – the ability to choose. To want something beyond our Purpose.” Samael paused, looking around the room. Confusion reigned. Angels looked to their neighbours and shrugged.

“But… why would anyone want that?” Came a hesitant voice from the back of the room. “Sounds like a stupid Gift to me.”

Samael grinned, “You’ve never wanted something other than to perform your Tasks? Never thought to turn your hand to a Skill that was not your own for the sheer joy of it?” Crowley shuffled and Aziraphale thought of his passionate harp playing. He hadn’t realised at the time, but a Star Hanger had no reason to play an instrument, no reason to weave music. Crowley had wanted to play the harp beyond his set duties. He was interrupted by Samael continuing. “Never desired more from someone, more than that which they were allotted to give?” 

Aziraphale, still thinking of how Crowley’s first rebellion may have been something as pure and wonderful as the pursuit of music, missed Bessial’s cheeks turning pink as she suddenly looked away from Samael. Her foot stopped tapping the tune from the duet as she was held captive in her own revelation. 

“That’ll be chaos!” A startled gasp broke through the quiet murmuring that had broken out across the room. Aziraphale wasn’t sure, but he thought it might have been the angel soon to be known as the demon Dagon that spoke up. 

Samael suddenly looked grave. “Yes, it would. We all have a Purpose, a Task, we were made to fit the confines of our boxes and never to step outside them. If we waver, Creation will waver in turn.” He paused, looking around the room, Aziraphale felt dread rise up his spine. “It would seem our Mother has the same opinion. We are not the ones to receive this Gift.”

“’We?’ But only we know we’re here!” A terrified squeak from the tiny angel that reminded Aziraphale so much of the doomed Usher from the Trial.

Samael silenced them all with a raise of his hand. There, in a sunbeam on a marble stair, one hand clenched around a golden bannister so tightly the metal had begun to bend, Samael’s eyes flashed with anger. “Mother has seen it fit to create new Beings. We have been tasked to create the world in which they will live. They will receive this Gift. They will be able to shape the world how the choose to, whilst we serve, chained to our posts for eternity.”

The room erupted into angry shouts. Angels that had scoffed at the absurdity of wanting free will were suddenly furious that someone else would receive it other than them. Aziraphale tried to shrink away from it, forgetting for a moment that he wasn’t strictly speaking there at all. 

“She will bestow gifts upon these new creatures that surpass those She has given us, her Firstborn,” Samael continued, his quiet, clear voice carrying across the hall, sadness clear on his face. “We will remain creatures of necessity, with no control over who we are and what our purpose-”

“That’s not strictly true, though, is it?” Aziraphale’s heart stopped in his chest as the face of every angel in the room turned to the speaker that had interrupted Samael himself. 

Crowley sprawled with easy confidence that befitted a throne more than the cream coloured sofa he currently sat on. With every set of eyes on him, he leaned forward, almost conspiratorially, and continued, “Not one of us is supposed to be here right now, are we? I know I’m supposed to be about 5 million light years that way,” he waved his hand vaguely in a seemingly random direction, “I should be over there, making sure a nebula forms stars in a very specific pattern when viewed from a certain angle. No idea why, of course, but the Task is the Task. But it’s not. Because if the task was the Task I’d be over there, not here.” Crowley pointed to the space between his feet and looked around the room slowly. “We all have places we’re supposed to be right now, but we are here. Because we chose to be here.” He looked coolly up at Samael. “Maybe this Gift is not so exclusive as you were told.” 

The room took a collective breath and held it. Hashmel looked like he was simultaneously terrified and furious, face contorting as he tried to lean away from Crowley next to him. 

Samael blinked in surprise, and for a long moment no one dared move. Then his face crinkled into a grin and he leapt to his feet. “You’re right! You are absolutely right! Of course, you’re right!” He laughed, sunlight dancing in his long golden curls. 

Crowley grinned and continued, “The way I see it, is that either we have this ‘Free will’ Gift, or we’re doing exactly what we’re supposed to be doing, and meeting here to ask about it, right?”

Samael threw back his head and laughed. “Oh, I like this bloke, Hashmel!” Hastur all but fell off the sofa in pride from being addressed directly, “You were absolutely right, he’s the perfect addition to our little band!”

Hastur beamed and clapped Crowley on the shoulder. He started talking about how he and Crowley were best friends and of course Samael could trust him to pick the right people. Aziraphale tuned out from such shameless brown-nosing and looked back at Crowley. 

The angel’s red curls fell over his face as he bowed his head, deep in thought. Aziraphale suddenly felt a prickling behind his eyes and fell through the ground, his shouts silent as he fell through darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't think Crowley's little question will have big consequences, do you?
> 
> Next Chapter: Crowley organises his next Big Rescue of Aziraphale. It doesn't go exactly to plan.


	6. Train stations are a product of Down Below

Adam raised an eyebrow as he looked over the scene in the living room.

The sofas and coffee table had been pushed to one side, the rug rolled and propped up on the sofa next to the sleeping body of Aziraphale, who had fallen to the side slightly and no one had thought to pick him back up. The floor had two similar looking magic circles drawn on in chalk – the shapes intricate and beautiful.

Adam nudged the delicately chalked glyphs on the floor with his shoe. “So… what’s this?”

Crowley gave Anathema a Look that clearly said, ‘this was your weird idea, don’t expect me to explain it’ and she stepped forward, holding the Victorian pulp fiction novel as if it was a holy tome.

“The short version is that an Elizabethan mystic created a way to summon occult creatures. I’ve basically reversed it, now it’ll send someone to that occult creature. He used the circles that I’ve drawn there, a very specific set of magic herbs that I have in here.” She shook a small bowl filled with random herbs from her spice rack with great gravitas. Crowley would have applauded if he was certain this was never going to work, and they were wasting their time. 

“What’s the other circle for?” Adam asked, peering down at the furthest circle.

“This circle,” Anathema pointed to the one closest to him, “is for Sending. I drew the patterns out then Crowley wrote the spell out using Aziraphale’s name in angelic script-sorry, letters.” Crowley had to bite back a scoff. His Enochian was about as good as Aziraphale’s French. He’s pretty sure he’d written the word for ‘train station’ as that was the only word he could actually remember. Even though there weren’t any train stations in Heaven. 

Train stations were definitely a product of Down Below.

How else do you explain the price of a blessed cup of coffee?

“And this circle,” Anathema pointed to the circle closest to her, “is a summoning circle. We’ve got both Crowley’s and Aziraphale’s names on this one. Once we’re sure Crowley has Aziraphale we’ll pull them both back using this one.”

Crowley grinned with false confidence. His millennia trained specialty. “I nip in, grab him, and nip back, easy as.” He said with a dismissive wave of his hand.

Crowley and Anathema held their breaths as Adam pondered this, eyes flicking from one circle to the other, eyebrows drawn together quizzically. The Them crowded behind him, various degrees of confusion on their faces.

Pepper was the first to speak. Of course.

“Is Aziraphale’s name enough to send someone to him, though? All the spells I’ve seen on tv need something he owned, like to anchor onto him and stuff?” Crowley tried to keep the flinch from showing at her words, it all hinged on Adam’s belief, if she talked him out of it…

Luckily Anathema recovered quicker than he did. “Of course, I was just getting to that! Crowley has something of his, don’t you?” She said with a very not subtle nod to one side.

Crowley was lost.

“Errr, yeah. Yep, Of course. We’ll just use his bowtie! He hasn’t taken it off in a hundred years, practically part of his skin now!” He gingerly stepped over the circle as he went to retrieve the bow tie. His hands were awkwardly hovering over Aziraphale’s neck (‘I haven’t seen so much as his clavicle since the bloody 12th century, I can’t just undress him!’ His mind screeched) when Pepper laughed.

“That won’t work, silly!” Crowley silently cursed in several languages that no longer existed. “His bow tie is physical, use that and you’ll just teleport to the sofa!” She rolled her eyes. It was all so obvious; how did he not know that?

“Well…” Anathema barely kept the panic out of her voice as she stared at Crowley, silently pleading with him to think of something. “I’m sure Crowley has something else of Aziraphale’s to use.” She fixed him with another stare, and he flinched, realising this all now hinged on him.

Crowley suddenly knew what he had to use, and his stomach sank as he realised there really was no other way. He signed and clicked his fingers, a glasses case falling into his other outstretched hand. 

“Cool!” Adam giggled, and Crowley smiled tightly. He’d told Aziraphale a hundred times that he could do actual magic, which was far more impressive that that stupid slight of hand nonsense he was so enamoured with.

“Right, well, I have this. But you’re not allowed to ask why I have it, agreed?” He glared at the Them until they nodded, looking slightly bemused. 

Reluctantly he opened the glasses case. Nestled inside was a single pure white feather. He picked it up gingerly by the end of the stem and passed it over to Anathema.

Anathema’s breath caught. “…Is that?”

Crowley nodded, “Yeah, I’ll want it back, after. Or, he will, I guess.”

“Why do you have that?” Adam asked. Crowley glared. 

“I said you can’t ask-” Crowley growled.

“How did you get it, though?” Adam pressed.

Crowley groaned, throwing his hands up in despair. “Right, fine, whatever. He left it in the car once, alright? I meant to give it back, but then I was given someone in a handbasket and suddenly it wasn’t at the top of my to-do list!” He all but shouted, gesturing towards Adam.

Adam considered this for a moment, then he nodded, apparently satisfied.

It was, of course, a lie. 

Crowley had kept that feather since the 60s. Aziraphale had gone to the only place that had such potent holy water, and he’d done it for him. A demon. The enemy. It had been the first time Aziraphale had really risked anything for Crowley, other than the distant ever-present uncertain loom of what would happen if Heaven ever found out about the Arrangement. He’d taken almost a hundred years and Crowley loudly planning a heist on his doorstep, but he’d eventually stuck his neck out and given Crowley the most powerful weapon against demon kind. In a tartan thermos. It was like handing over a nuke in an ill-fitting snuggy. 

Awed by the lengths Aziraphale had gone for him (“the holiest” he had said) he’d softly asked Aziraphale what he wanted in return. “Anywhere you want to go.” (‘Anything at all you want from me, it’s yours. Just want it. Ask for it, and I’ll do anything, anything at all.’ He’d screamed the mantra he’d been screaming in his mind for 6000 years.) Aziraphale had bashfully turned him down and flown out of the car, slipping into the aether that existed just a hair’s breadth for the physical plane. As his wings had carried him out of the car, a single feather had fallen onto the antique leather seat. Crowley had gently placed the thermos down and stared at it in wonder. It looked like it was glowing, the pure white standing out starkly against the dark interior of the Bentley. 

He’d picked it up with trembling fingers, half expecting it to burn him. He rarely touched Aziraphale. Centuries passed without them so much as brushing shoulders. He was never sure what would happen if he’d laid his demonic hands on the angel. But, Satan below, how he’d burned to find out. He’d happily be reduced to glowing cinders just to be allowed to hold him, but he’d never dared in case it wasn’t him that was burnt by his touch. Aziraphale was pure, was Holy in a way that the other angels could never understand (in Crowley’s opinion, anyway). Crowley would only taint him, spoil him with his touch and his want. So, he kept a distance. He could never stay away indefinitely, drawn back to the other’s Light time and time again like a moth setting its wings alight against a flame. But that last foot or so of space he would never cross. Aziraphale deserved more than he could ever give, after all. He could still feel their brush of fingers in the ruins of the church, an electric tingle that haunted him in the stillness of the night.

It was warm. But not the burning that he expected, demon fingers touching something so divine, but the soft comforting warmth of body heat. It wasn’t the heat of Grace or Heaven, but the gentle real warmth of Aziraphale himself.

Crowley sat staring at it until it matched his own body heat, then pulled out a glasses case that wasn’t in the glove compartment a moment ago and placed the feather inside.

He meant to give it back, he really, really did.

He never lied to anyone as much as he lied to himself.

With a shake of his head he pulled himself back to the present.

Adam was rehearsing the lines of the spell with Anathema. He must have decided that he believed in the plan whilst Crowley was stuck in his own thoughts. Crowley breathed a sigh of relief and stood in the centre of the Sending circle when directed. 

Just before Adam started reading the spell for real, Pepper piped up again, and Crowley’s insides seethed.

“Wait! We need something from both of them to get them back, right?” She asked, academic and infuriating to the last.

Crowley sighed as everyone looked at him again. “Right, well, guess we can use the feather twice, right?” Anathema nodded. Crowley shrugged his shoulders and his wings unfurled, a pitch back shadow blotting out the lazy afternoon light streaming through the cottage window. Newton whimpered as the Them cooed and awed like a panto crowd. Crowley grabbed a feather at random and yanked it out.

Everyone winced. 

“Here.” He passed it over to Anathema who place it gently in the book, to keep it safe for the spell to bring him back. “So, we doing this?”

Crowley looked up expectantly, hands in his pockets and shoulders raised, wings sliding back into their own plane.

Anathema nodded and pointed to the book, Adam obediently started reading, voice stumbling over the words, but that didn’t matter, the words were gibberish, all he had to do was believe them.

“This is here and that is there.  
From this to that and that to this.  
From God’s grace to Demon’s kiss.  
For ungodly journey, prepare.

West wind find thy way,  
East wind secure thy path  
North wind be thy hearth  
South wind for thee, pray

Fire’s kiss transport thee hence  
Water’s blessing keep thee safe  
Earth’s protection keep thee chaste  
Wind’s freedom guide thee hence”

As he finished the passage, an awkward silence hung in the air. Crowley almost balked at the terrible excuse for poetry. If he knew anything about Aziraphale after 6000 years of friendship, he knew he would gladly be discorperated rather than have to listen to such tawdry bullshit. Nothing had changed. Crowley stood awkwardly scratching his chin. Anathema sighed, hanging her head in defeat.

“Well, go on then.” Adam made a shooing motion with his hand and Crowley felt his true form drop through the floor, yelping.

Chalk dust hung in the air as Crowley’s body hit the ground, a look of surprised locked on his face. 

Anathema blinked, uncertain what to do next.

Newton bent down, “Well, we better put him on the sofa next to the other one for now.” He said with a shrug.

As the Them congratulated Adam on doing real actual magic, Anathema smiled. Again, and again she was shown that Newton’s straightforward practicality was exactly what she needed to offset the series of oddities that was her own life. Someone uncomplicated and steadfast to act as a home to return to.

As often as she’d resented just being a tool for her ancestor’s predictions, she could never fault that Agnes was always, always right. Even about Newton.

Especially about Newton.

And she’d never been more grateful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: Samael comes back from an Archangel meeting with some new information and a split lip. Thing's begin that cannot be stopped.


	7. You take this dalliance too far, little Brother

Aziraphale blinked and found himself half running down an endless white corridor. Confused he staggered to a stop, only to be pulled sharply forwards, where he could see Crowley running ahead. 

He tried to piece together his memories, one minute he was in the basement with the not-yet-fallen angels and the next he had been falling downwards through blackness. Then he was here, running after a frantic Crowley.

Clearly some time had passed, but how long he had no way of knowing. He picked up his pace, trying to catch up, as Hashmel sprinted past him.

“Come on.” Crowley spat over his shoulder. “Where’s Bessial?”

“Should already be there.” Hashmel replied, panting slightly, “You know she won’t believe this.”

Crowley groaned. “I know, that’s why we need to find out what happened.”

Skidding around a corner they ducked down the alley from before, heading down the steps back into the basement. Aziraphale shivered. The atmosphere was completely different now. Where once groups of friends had sat around idly chatting and exchanging wide smiles, now the angels sat in tight lipped groups. They shuffled and murmured, eyes darting from face to face. Seeing who had joined them, who they could trust, who had received the invitation but stayed away.

The room wasn’t dark and dingy. It wasn’t sinister or crowded. It was still a room in Heaven filled with angels. Angels that would soon Fall and be twisted into the cruellest and foulest of God’s creations, but angels all the same.

Crowley forced himself through the gathering until he spotted Bessial slumped on the sofa, chewing on a nail. 

She jumped up when she spotted his bright red curls weaving through the room.

“Is it true? Did they really-” Crowley all but fell into the sofa next to her, Hashmel hovering awkwardly in front of them both, eyes trained on the door.

“That’s what they’re saying, but we can’t be sure until we hear it from Samael.” He started as Crowley softly placed a hand on Bessial’s shoulder.

A sudden bang had everyone in the room looking upwards towards the door, the air still and perfectly silent.

Samael stood in the doorway, golden curls dishevelled and his right eye quickly turning a garish shade of purple. Another angel hurried forwards and closed the door behind him. Waving a hand to miracle it locked. A simple latch wasn’t enough to make them feel secure today.

Aziraphale gulped and he heard Crowley whisper behind him, “Well, shit.”

“As you can see,” Samael growled, voice booming across the room. A couple of the closest angels shrank back, clearing the space before him as he paced angrily across the small balcony above the stairs. Every pair of eyes in the room followed him. “My humble request for more information about the humans,” he spat the word, a drop of blood spilling from his split lip, “has been denied.”

He paused, head held high, showing the room his black eye, his split lip. Giving them all a moment to absorb the meaning behind this, the first blood spilt in anger in Heaven.

“My brothers and sisters have made their displeasure of my inquisitiveness known. I asked them ‘why should these lowly creatures receive gifts to which we are denied?’ And they couldn’t even comprehend what it was I had questioned.

“I begged ‘if we are to kneel before such animals why does God not make them greater than us, so we may have reason for our servitude?’ And they sneered and called me Prideful.

“I wept and asked them ‘how can you stand it, to kneel in the mud with the lowly creatures and still imagine that our mother hasn’t betrayed us?’ And Michael punched me in the eye. I struck back, begging that she deign to look at the Truth I had brought her, and she struck me down, spilling my blood upon Heaven’s floor.”

The room erupted into angry shouts, voices crying out that he had been mistreated, how he didn’t deserve such scorn, how the other Archangels were wrong to treat him this way. Aziraphale tried to shrink back, the fear settling on his skin like grease.

“It’s clear,” Samael started, then had to shout to be heard over the din, the room falling into an angry quiet, “It is clear that we are alone in this. That we must seek answers and justice ourselves. I will take this to the feet of God herself. I will accept no word but Her’s. I will bow to none but Her.” Samael stood tall, glowing in his holy wrath, all 6 wings spread and shivering with rage. “If She will not give us the gift of freewill then we shall take it. We are the true artisans of Creation! This world was shaped by our hands, our toil.” Golden eyes flashed red with rage. “We create utopia and are expected to leave it to lesser beings? To sit in our rooms until we are needed? Have we not earned the freedom to choose our fates? To pursue whatever and whoever we please? Is it truly our Fate to craft paradise for others and never seek it for ourselves? And if She has truly abandoned us in favour of these new dalliances that She calls _man_ then I will bow to no one and I shall have no master but myself.”

The silence of the room shattered as angels cheered and whooped. Laughter rang out and Aziraphale desperately wanted to be anywhere but here. Slowly he forced himself to turn around. To see the angel Crowley would soon cease to be. He breathed out and looked back over to the sofa. 

Crowley was grinning, ear to ear, golden eyes shining, staring up at the Archangel that would drag him burning to the darkest pits alongside him with nothing less than love and utter joy.

Aziraphale felt his heart break like something physically snapping in his chest. Crowley was filled with such love, such trust, he almost glowed with it. Aziraphale had never seen him like this. So open. So naïve. Could he not see how foolishly misplaced his trust was? How Samael cared only for himself and his own pride, his own goals? How the other angels gathered here today were just here to cheer him on, to reinforce his own foolishness? 

How could Crowley so readily place his trust in an Archangel who so very clearly only wanted to use him to a means to an end, who didn’t care about him at all-

Oh.

Aziraphale slumped back against a set of shelves. 

This is what he must have looked like to Crowley, all these years. All those millennia chasing the praise and the respect of Archangels who probably had to double check their paperwork to remember his name before each meeting. Believing in his own vision of Heaven so resolutely that he couldn’t see how tainted and shallow the real Heaven was even when he stood in the heart of it. 

No wonder Crowley was so exasperated with him all the time. The poor boy was being forced to watch him make the same mistake he did over, and over. All those whispers that he had dismissed as lazy temptations. ‘What if we just went home?’ ‘What if we just went to lunch?’ ‘What if we just ran away?’ ‘What if we did what we actually want, not what we’ve been told to want?’

Crowley was a terrible angel, a worse demon, but utterly perfect at being himself.

And wasn’t that the reason Aziraphale couldn’t push him away? Couldn’t deny him his temptations? To a cookie cutter soldier, made of a recast mold, the same as a hundred angels before and countless angels since, Aziraphale saw Crowley as a creature that was completely himself, completely unique, and delighting in it, and he was drawn towards that impossible creature. 

Because if Crowley could be himself so easily, maybe, just maybe, he could teach this tarnished tin soldier to be himself too. Aziraphale never realised, how could he realise, how could he recognise something he was never allowed to see? Individuality in Heaven was unthinkable, it was met with fear and hostility ever since the War. Different was Dangerous. Every angel had lost brothers and sisters to the War. They had seen how quickly Different spread, how deep the scars it left behind. So, they hastily plastered over it, blustered past it. Focused on their duties and never let themselves falter.

To falter was to waver.

To waver was to stumble.

To stumble was to Fall.

Short fingers clad in silver rings turned white on a shelf as the revelation tore through him. Wide blue eyes stared down at them. At the silver rings that Crowley had bought him because he’d seen them through a window and cooed over them in Hatton Garden a hundred years ago. 

He would never have admitted that he wanted them, in fact he’d tried to convince Crowley that he didn’t, he just liked the look of them, he didn’t need them. But Crowley had seen through him. Again, as he always did. The Demon had seen the Angel want something for himself, for Aziraphale the bookshop owner, not the Principality Aziraphale, Guardian of the Eastern Gate, just him, liking something in a window, and wanting to keep it for himself.

And Crowley had understood that in a way Aziraphale hadn’t, and had bought the trinkets with ill gotten coin, smiling as he presented them to the flustered angel. 

But Aziraphale thought he understood now. Or that he was starting to.

He needed to stop pretending he was satisfied with what Heaven had deigned to give him, and learn to fight for what he wanted, and be prepared to pay the cost of keeping it. He had almost achieved it with thwarting the apocalypse. But that hadn’t been just for him, it had been for everyone. Every human that had ever been, and now, for every human that could ever be. He hadn’t fought it for himself, not really.

He’d been pushing the one thing he wanted selfishly away. Afraid of what wanting something meant. 

No more.

What was he doing? He needed to get back to Crowley, the real Crowley, _his_ Crowley.

He tore himself out of his own head and span on his heel. It was long past the time he should have broke himself out of this spell, illusion, or whatever he was stuck in. He balled his fists and prepared to reach out with his angelic sense to try and find a way home when there was a ripple of fear from behind him.

“What in Her name is the meaning of this?” A shout from the back of the room. Every angel fell silent immediately.

An angel stood up sharply, pushing the hood they had been wearing back and showing their face.

Aziraphale stepped back, fear shooting up his spine, yet again forgetting for a moment that he wasn’t actually there.

“Sister! What a joy to see you here!” Samael sneered, sarcasm dripping from his tongue like bile.

Michael marched forwards, back ramrod straight. Every inch the picture of righteous fury. Eyes fixed on her youngest brother she strode forwards, trusting that the other angels would get out of her way.

Each and every one of them did, tripping over each other to clear the space. Those at the back frantically searched for exits, but the only door stood behind Samael, up the marble stairs.

Samael didn’t move, watching Michael stalk towards him, his face the careful mask of detached interest.

“How dare you question the Word of Our Lord, little brother, you take this dalliance too far.” Michael’s one was clipped, patronising. Like a mother chastising an errant child.

“This no longer concerns you, Sister dearest, you heard what I said before. I will hear that our Mother has abandoned us from Her own mouth and no one else’s.” Tired, dismissive, Samael sounded like he was sick of repeating himself.

“You would presume to waste Her time with your nonsense?” Incredulous, Michael reached the bottom step just as the angel that had locked the door before miracled it once more, throwing it open.

Gabriel stood in the doorway, a familiar false grin on his face.

“’Ello, ‘ello, ‘ello, what’s all this then?” He said, pushing the angel gently back into the room, fingers splayed on his chest.

Next to Aziraphale, Bessial whimpered. 

The Archangel Gabriel blocked the only exit. There was no way out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, my name is LoveLettersUnsent and I am Weak to writing speeches for sanctimonious arseholes. Welcome to my TED talk.
> 
> Honestly this was one of my favourite chapters to write, I hope you all enjoyed it!
> 
> Next chapter: Where did Crowley end up? And with the War about to kick off in earnest, will he get to Aziraphale in time? Stay tuned and I'll see you lovely people on Tuesday!


	8. Like some sort of mobius strip of angst

There was cold stone at his back and fine dust under his fingers.

Crowley frowned and pulled his scattered thoughts together, he should have been teleported back in time, or was that into his memories? Was he now inside his own head, like some sort of mobius strip of angst? Whatever, as long as he was wherever Aziraphale was now stuck with the past version of him, then he could grab the angel and _get home_.

And he was not looking forward to that conversation. “Oh, my dear boy, you were so _good_. Why ever did you stop being so _nice_.” And, his most dreaded thought, “You look so dashing in _white_.”

How Aziraphale could know him so well whilst understanding him so little would forever be a mystery to him.

White made his skin look _awful_.

With a groan Crowley opened his eyes, squinting against the glare of Heaven. Bright sunlight bounced off white stone and white sand. Crowley scrunched his eyes shut and grabbed a pair of sunglasses from his pocket. 

On the second try, eyes now sufficiently protected, he opened his eyes and staggered to his feet, hissing as his joints protested, looking up and down a long straight corridor lined with columns.

A long, white, empty corridor.

“Well, bollocks. Where the Heaven are you, Angel?” He growled, paused and muttered “…Literally, I suppose.”

He cast out with his senses, trying to find a clue to Aziraphale’s location. He focused on the feeling that Aziraphale had under all the layers of what he carried with him. Feathers damp with the first rainfall, a cool breeze on a hot day, a kind hand to guide the way in the darkness. Abstract feelings that merged and flowed that would grab at Crowley unaware and drag him into his own vivid memories. Treasures he’d hidden so deep within himself Hell had never even suspected they were there for the taking.

He felt nothing. “So much for the feather ‘anchor’ trick.” He groused, checking his pockets and pulling the glasses case out of his inner jacket pocket.

He clicked the case open and stopped walking, pulling out the feather and letting it lie on his palm. “Right, so… How is this supposed to bloody work, then?” He tried using it as a compass, but whichever way he turned the feather didn’t move. 

He threw it up in the air but it took a frankly arrogant amount of time to land again and each time he threw it it would land pointing a different way.

“What good are you, then?” He yelled at it, preparing to snap the case shut when he heard a small voice coming from the feather.

“What the-“ He leaned closer, holding the feather up to his ear.

A faint voice could be heard.

“Crowley, is that you?”

“…Anathema?” Crowley blinked once, then twice, then shrugged. “Looks like the feather just connects me to your version of the feather. Makes sense, really.”

Silence on the other side of the line. “That makes sense to you?”

“Yeah, anyway, not going to waste time chatting with you here. I’ll shout when I find him and that’ll be your cue to pull us back, Adam. Adam is there, right?” Crowley asked as matter as factly as he could manage, just because he was sure that would annoy Anathema.

“Yep! I’m here, awaiting your message, Crowley, over and out!” Came Adam’s giggling voice, faint and somehow tinny through the feather.

“Yeah, sure, that one.” Crowley relied, confused but amused as he clicked the glasses case shut and stowed it back in his jacket pocket.

Without any better options, he set off walking down the corridor to his left.

After a few steps he yelped as he was pulled backwards, tripping over his own feet, and landing in a cloud of gravel and dust.

“Well, that answers that bloody question, doesn’t it?” He snarled at no one in particular, as he got to his feet again, furiously patting the white dust off his dark clothes. “At least I look like me-me and not like the _other_ me.

“I looked bloody stupid in white.”

Taking the not-so-subtle hint, Crowley walked in the direction he could now feel he was being pulled. 

Setting off, he let his mind wander. How the Heaven was this supposed to work, anyway? Could angels see him? Because that would make everything so much harder if he had to play silly buggers with a squad of overzealous angels. Was he even in the past? Sure, he didn’t recognise this part of Heaven, but he wouldn’t even if it was present time, would he? Not like he’d been there in 6000 years, not including his last trip Upstairs, and that was a straight line to Michael’s office and back, they don’t exactly take perceived traitors via the scenic route, after all. No last river cruise to the Traitor’s Gate for the ethereal troublemaker. Just a brief stroll up a back stair and a last step into the flames.

He was suddenly aware of an angel turning the corner and walking straight towards him.

He hissed, then bit it back. ‘That’s real subtle, isn’t it?’ He thought angrily, ‘No way I can talk my way out of this one, standing in full view in black with snake eyes and bloody hissing at her. No hiding I’m a demon with behaviour like that.’

The angel didn’t even look up, kept her eyes on the scroll in her hands and walked straight through him.

Crowley gyrated in a full body shiver. “Right. New rule. Don’t let anyone do that to you again. Ever. Because that was _bloody weird_.”

At least that answered his question of whether anyone could see him. He carried on walking, pose a lot more relaxed now that he knew he was pretty much alone until he found Aziraphale. Also, judging by the robes the angel had been wearing, he was somehow in the past. The Uniform had been updated whenever it was when Michael had become enamoured with kilts, of all things, and no angel would wear something that wasn’t regulation.

As he walked, he heard a repetitive noise growling steadily louder. The grinding and crashing of metal. It bounced off the walls and clashed together. Crowley winced at the din. A few more steps and he found the doorway the racket was coming from.

He was at the top of a flight of steps leading down into a wide courtyard. In the courtyard were hundreds of angels. In neat and tidy rows. At a glance Crowley counted 20 rows of 20 columns. 200 angels moving in perfect synchronisation. 

Crowley frowned. He didn’t remember this part of Heaven. And he’d explored most of it. He was a curious angel, can’t ask questions if you’re not willing to stick your nose where it isn’t wanted after all. Which meant his past self wasn’t here. Which meant Aziraphale wasn’t here – unless… unless he was.

Crowley stood in the middle of the courtyard and groaned. Aziraphale had been a bloody soldier before he was stationed on Earth, hadn’t he? That meant he was here, he’d been sent to the past version of Aziraphale and somehow unable to walk too far away from the angel, to boot. Just bloody great, how was he supposed to find _his_ Aziraphale if he was stuck with the past one? 

Well, no use worrying about that right now. First thing he needed to do was find the version he was now being forced to shadow. Then he looked up and realised that he was standing in front of 200 identical angels. All wearing matching uniforms and standard issue helmets. At this point Aziraphale was a needle in a stack of needles.

He swore.

Loudly.

In Enochian. (‘Train station’ was the only word he could remember that was suitable to be read by children.)

Even finding him wouldn’t help him. What good would being stuck following the past version of Aziraphale do him? He needed to find the future/current version of Aziraphale, and for that he needed to find the past version of himself. 

Maybe he could influence past-Aziraphale somehow to go the way Crowley needed him to? Crowley looked up, squinting at the brightly lit sky. Would he even remember the way to the Star Fields where he worked back then? He felt a chill in his heart. Even if he could physically get there, would he be able to stand walking amongst the nebulae that used to feel like such a home to him, that he hadn’t seen in millennia? 

Shaking his head to clear the melancholy gathering within him, he started walking. He had to find the past Aziraphale – no point wasting time wondering about what could happen instead of doing what you can to find out what will happen. 

Swords flashed in Heaven’s sunlight, metal catching the light as they moved in perfectly synchronised arcs. Helmets covered hair; visors covered faces. Everybody moved in perfect unison, like a single machine. Crowley smiled as he walked along the edge of the courtyard. He knew where to find Aziraphale. No way his pottering bookseller would be doing such intense physical activity if there was any way to avoid it. He skirted the edge of the courtyard, looking behind each pillar. Fully expecting to find his oldest friend hidden in the shadow of one, probably reading some scroll or other. 

Pillar by pillar he searched, finding nothing but sand and shadows. Time wore on and a Doubt started forming in his mind, but the angels in the courtyard hadn’t stopped for a single moment, moving through drills with effortless perfection, kept in time by the booming shouts of the drill sergeant. Crowley had known Aziraphale for 6000 years. He knew him as well as he knew himself, maybe more so, Crowley was well aware that he had talents for many things, but introspection was very much something that happened to other people. 

Eventually he’d checked behind every pillar and still not found his lazy angel. (‘Not lazy,’ he could almost hear Aziraphale say with an indignant sniff, ‘Sloth is a Sin, I’m just… comfortable. I can’t see the point of being not comfortable, so I avoid it where I can.’)

Every time he tried to leave the courtyard his feet would turn him around and lead him back, a mass of flailing limbs trying to stay upright. With a sigh he gave in to the inevitable and started down the rows of angels, not bothering to flinch when the blades sliced through his incorporeal form. He studied each angel, face by face, snarling at the end of each row when he hadn’t found the one that actually mattered.

Eventually he’d checked every face. Twice. And still the angels trained, no sweat for the soldiers of heaven, no tiredness for those filled with the Lord’s Grace. Crowley raised an eyebrow, “I thought it was the wicked that weren’t allowed to rest…” he muttered, thoroughly confused standing in front of the rows of training angels, hands on his hips. “Where the bloody Heaven are you, angel?” he groused.

Behind him the drill sergeant continued barking out his orders and suddenly, finally, Crowley recognised that voice. 

He turned slowly, eyebrows climbing high above his sunglasses.

There, marching back and forth along the columns of angels was Aziraphale, cheeks glowing red as he shouted orders and kept everyone else in time. 

Crowley gaped like a fish out of water.

Dimly he had always been aware that they wouldn’t have given the job of Guardian of the Eastern Gate of Eden to just any old angel, but the mere thought of Aziraphale being a soldier was absurd to him. His soft stomached pursuer of quiet comforts wielding a sword with purpose rather than flustered reluctance? Ridiculous!

And yet. Here he was. Back straight, eyes clear. Swinging his sword with strength and precision. His stomach was flat, the muscles of his arms strong and full. The perfect image of Heaven’s perfect soldier. An adoration hanging in knave of a Church, the frame worn down where generations of humans from the local barracks had pressed kiss wet fingers to the wood, praying that they could both serve god and country and still make it home to their loved ones.

A chill shot up Crowley’s spine.

This is what Aziraphale was made to be. What he could have-what he would have been if it wasn’t for Crowley constantly slithering up to whisper sweet temptations in his ear. Here, Aziraphale stood amongst the legions of Heaven, trusted, respected. 

What had Crowley given him instead? Nice little restaurants and a shared bottle of vintage wine far younger than them. Had he really considered what Aziraphale wanted during the years they had spent orbiting each other? What Aziraphale was risking? Sure, Crowley had shed the old restrictive skin of Heaven as soon as he was able, but Aziraphale had struggled with it for millennia. Laboriously scraping away each old clinging scale one by one against anything he could get his hands on – a signed first edition, a fresh French Crepe.

A willing demon.

Crowley swallowed thickly, reminding himself that it was Aziraphale that had sheltered him under his wing at that first meeting. Aziraphale that had first suggested they eat together. That Aziraphale was his own creature just as much as Crowley was his. The angel was just a bit more subtle about it. 

Crowley had led the Angel to the Ritz, but he could not make him drink.

He was pulled from his thoughts by Michael walking into the courtyard, Aziraphale spotted her and barked an order, every angel sweeping effortlessly into a salute. Gabriel strode a step behind her, and both had faces of barely restrained thunder. Crowley arched an eyebrow. 

“Well, this is new.” He muttered, standing next to Aziraphale as he saluted to the Archangels, fighting the urge to grab Aziraphale’s hand and pull it down. “What’s got your knickers in a twist, then?” He asked, knowing full well that none of them could hear him.

“At ease, Major.” Gabriel said with a smile that actually reached his eyes, but not quite his eyebrows, which remained drawn tight with worry. Aziraphale clicked his heels and dropped his hand.

Crowley wanted to shake him. 

“A word, if you have a moment, Major.” Michael said, leaving no pause for Aziraphale to argue, “There has been an Incident. We have a Traitor in our midst. Forces are gathering against Our Lord as we speak, you and the other Company Leaders are to march out to quell the Rebellion and protect the rest of Heaven. Do you understand?”

Aziraphale looked stunned. His mouth hung slightly open as he tried to catch up with all the information he’d just been given. Crowley turned to him quizzically, surely this is what he’d been training for? How could it be so unexpected? If there were soldiers training in Heaven under orders from the Archangels then the War must be in full swing. A small rebellion that had spread quickly through Heaven like a plague. Thousands of battlegrounds springing up like boils on bile mottled skin. The fury and blades of the Archangels as useless as the crushed flowers in the hook-nosed masks of plague doctors. Unless this wasn’t to do with the ongoing war but-

“Aziraphale.” Crowley started as Gabriel reached through him to lay a hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder, his voice soft. “I know this is unprecedented. We always believed the Threat She made your Company to fight would be some external threat. The fact that it’s come from within…” Gabriel’s voice caught, and it was Crowley’s turn to stand stunned at the genuine emotion that shook it. Gabriel looked Aziraphale straight in the eye and whispered as if he was still scared that it won’t be real until he gave it a voice. “My Brother is about to do Heaven unimaginable Harm. We don’t know how many he’s managed to corrupt with his lies, but we have to protect Heaven and stop his malice spreading any further. Can we rely on you and your Company to do this?”

Crowley blanched, spinning to look over the Company still standing to attention behind him. Suddenly remembering the uniform, the faces. “No, no, no. Not you, don’t say it was you.” He blathered, attempting to grab Aziraphale and growling as his hands slipped through his flesh. He made the mistake of looking at Aziraphale’s face.

The Major of one of Heaven’s companies stood tall, saluting once more, he looked troubled by the news of betrayal in Heaven’s ranks, but he positively shone with eagerness to prove his devotion and to finally be what he was created for. 

A soldier sworn to expel all threats to Heaven and the Lord his God.

Crowley forced himself to stop shaking as Aziraphale recounted his orders to the waiting Company. On one hand, he now knew when he was and exactly where he would find his (not his, never his, this conversation proves that whatever he was now – whoever’s he was now, he began as this, Heaven’s creature) Aziraphale. On the other he knew that this was it. His final day in Heaven. In a street across the Silver City Crowley rushed to confirm a rumour of violence among the Archangels, driven by a thousand unanswered questions, white wings streaking behind him. 

The first punch of the War had been thrown and the Prince of Darkness cradled his wounded lip as he nursed his split pride. The taste of violence that leaked from the wound was a taste the rest of Creation was about to learn.

Crowley had never been able to stomach it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Quick note on the “Traitor’s Gate” - the Traitor’s Gate is an entrance to the Tower of London that opens directly onto the Thames, as the name suggests it’s the entrance used by traitors to the crown. If they brought you to the Tower via that gate it was almost certain that you would be executed. This is the way that Anne Boleyn, second wife of King Henry VIII, was brought into the tower before having her head cut off by a swordsman. The last taste of freedom she had would have been a boat ride down the Thames through London. Though I doubt she was in the mood for sightseeing.]
> 
> Next time: The war begins in earnest, but what roles did our heroes play?


	9. You are no longer of Heaven, begone Foul Fiend.

Heaven held its breath. The three Archangels in the room made for a strange tableau, Michael looking up the gold gilt stairs to where Samael stood, turning to face the broad-shouldered solid square that was Gabriel, blocking the doorway. 

Michael quirked an eyebrow and Gabriel sighed dramatically. “Well, brother, it seems we’re doing this your way. Now, let’s get these poor angels out of the way, shall we? They’ve already wasted too much of their time on your silly tantrum, no need to drag them into this any further, is there?”

The angels looked at Samael apologetically and shuffled towards the door. Sadness flashed across Samael’s face, so quick Aziraphale almost missed it. Each turned back was another betrayal, another piece of Satan’s Faith that blackened and crumbled away. Gabriel stepped into the room and clapped the closest one to him on the shoulder. “See, that wasn’t so hard, was it?” He looked around the room. “It’s been all fun and games with your secret meetings and your questions, but I’m here to make it clear that if there was something God wanted you to know, They would have told me to tell you. I am the messenger, it’s kind of my ‘thing’.” He said with a smile that could freeze bones. “And none of this,” he waved his hand dismissively at the crowd, “was in any of my memos, so come on, chop chop, back to work and I promise to forget this ever happened, okay?”

As he spoke the first of the angels reached the door and stopped, turning back into the room. “So, God didn’t tell you to come here?” They asked, confusion slowing the words on their tongue.

“Excuse me?” Gabriel asked in a tone of voice that thousands of years later management training seminars would insist was ‘patient, open, and understanding. Used correctly it will make you sound authoritative, but approachable.’ But anyone in the team below such managers will say that tone makes you want to ‘punch the speaker in his smug jaw.’

Yes, management training seminars were one of Crowley’s more inspired creations. Charge companies inordinate sums of money to turn perfectly nice people into insufferable mini-dictators who are convinced they’re being subtle and crafty but will piss off everyone they come into contact with all day every day until the end of middle management (so, the end of Time). The fact all the training centres were just off the M25 and always scheduled to end during rush hour was just the icing on the cake of misery.

“God. God didn’t tell you about this, so God didn’t care. Of course God knows, God knows everything, so if God didn’t tell you…” The angel looked over the room, anger seeping onto their face. “God doesn’t care about us. Not now They have humans.” The angel turned to Samael, “You were right. We were made to kneel to them, we were made to-to-to…”

Michael strode onto the lowest step and called up, “Oh what are you babbling about? Of course we were made to serve! It’s basic knowledge. God created us so we’ll spend our lives in adulation and servitude to Her Great Wisdom and we should be grateful to receive such a Task from Her!” She spat, like a teacher having to explain gravity for the tenth time that day to children that refused to listen.

“No, they’re right!” Samael seized his chance and gestured to the room, “Not only does God expect our servitude, She’s created entire battalions to enforce it! They’ll work us to the bone and discard us when we have served our purpose!”

“That’s just preposterous!” Michael dismissed him angrily. 

“Oh, really?” Samael sneered, “So there isn’t a hundred of your pets outside fully armed and instructed to dispatch anyone that leaves?” 

“Slander of the highest-” Michael started, before she was interrupted by the angel nearest the door panicking and running out and up the stairs.

There were the muffled sounds of shouts and a strange wet thumping before the door flew open again as the angel crashed through it. 

The room was silent. The angel stood slowly, face and robes slicked with blood. “There’s at least a hundred out there.” He said shakily. “Wouldn’t let me leave, so I struck one. She struck back with those ‘sword’ things. Got me good.” He looked at Gabriel, a slow grin smearing blood across his face. “She was stronger, but I was faster.”

Quick as lightning the angel pulled a sword from his tunic and lashed out, aiming for Gabriel. Aziraphale recognised the stance even before Gabriel had finished moving. He dodged the blade easily, grabbing the assailant’s wrist and twisting, the sword clattered to the ground even as Gabriel drew his and plunged it straight through his torso.

“Damn you.” The angel snarled, spitting blood onto the Archangels pristine robes. 

“I rather think that’s my job.” Gabriel said, sounding stunned as his sword glowed and he flung the angel off of him. 

The angel took two steps back, blood splattering to the ground as he opened his wings, ready to pounce.

The room gasped. The wings were a mottled dirty grey, huge feathers dropping off and spiralling to the floor below. It took a moment for the angel to realise what they were looking at, and when he saw the state of his wings he cried out. 

Michael took a step back, smug. “For your crimes She has taken Her Grace from you.” She raised an upturned palm to him, “You are no longer of Heaven, begone Foul Fiend.” She smiled, and the floor below the angel cracked open, smoke pouring forth as the angel Fell.

The room erupted into chaos. Angels grabbed onto each other, pushing others out of the way to get as far away from Michael and Gabriel as they could, and everyone was screaming and shouting the same questions.

“What happened to him?”

“Was that blood? Who’s was it?”

“What crimes? Is that going to happen to us?” 

“His Grace was gone?”

And then one shout about the rest, from Bessiel standing the arm of the sofa, a gilt gold bannister in her outstretched arm, “Get Samael out of here.” 

Aziraphale wasn’t listening. Once the shock of seeing the Angel Fall had worn off he realised he recognised him. Not as a demon, but as the angel himself. He started running towards the door, unheeding of who he ran through to get there.

_He remembered that face. Twisted with anger as a member of his Platoon, Geshmale, had done as she was ordered and asked anyone leaving the basement to wait to one side until the Archangels came to collect them. Aziraphale had turned away to look over the lines of soldiers and wonder if everyone here in full regalia was a little over the top. He remembered thinking that all they had to do was talk to the people leaving, surely they could have left the swords at the barracks?_

_There was a shout as the angel had lashed out, Aziraphale turning back so fast his neck had cracked. His feet were already in motion, hurrying to his soldier’s side, but the angel was faster, hands clawing at her face as she unsheathed her sword with practised ease and slashed his arm, forcing him to back off._

_The rest of the platoon had rushed forward to help her, Aziraphale striding towards the pair (if only he had been faster, but there had been no sense of urgency. Who feared the Death of another when no one had ever Died before?)_

_She was stronger, but he was faster. The sword was wrenched from her grip and stabbed into the soft meat of her side before being yanked out as the angel ran back down the steps._

_Aziraphale caught Geshmelda as she fell backwards, blood soaking her robes quicker than Aziraphale could believe. With a thought he miracled the wound closed, but everyone was clearly shaken._

It was Aziraphale’s first regret, the first time he saw violence and realised it was against someone he had sent to face it. He was the one who had ordered her to be closest to the door, to be the one to talk to the angels as they left the basement. He had believed her soft features would have a calming effect on the poor angels that had gotten caught up in the Archangels bickering, but instead it had made her the easiest target. 

She was healed instantly by Aziraphale’s miracle, but she was never the same. He had sent her to alert the other platoons in case they required back-up to get her away from what had just happened. But she was never as open and as caring as she had been before. It was subtle, but she’d take a step back if someone stood within a sword’s reach of her for the next 6000 years.

There were reasons why Aziraphale hated dreams. The few nights he had tried to sleep the eyes haunted him, sunken weary gazes from the horrors he had ordered them to witness. Horrors he had ordered them to deliver to others.

Aziraphale forced himself to push his guilt aside as he ran up the steps, non-corporeal footfalls lost amongst the carnage that was erupting in the basement. A glance over his shoulder and his fears were confirmed.

He knew what happened next. A wave of panicked and angry angels erupting into the square filled with rows of silently waiting soldiers. 

What happened next was what would happen over and over again throughout human history. Inexperienced soldiers with dreams of glory were about to be met with those filled with anger, desperation, and cruelty.

What happened next was carefully omitted from the History of both sides. Details altered, martyrs named, blame passed around like an unwanted gift.

What happened after was a ribbon being cut on a memorial statue to bear the names of those lost for generations to walk past and never notice.

Aziraphale shook his head and focused. “What mattered right now was that if I remember this then that means I’m _here_ here, the past me, I mean. And if I’m here… Oh, please say you’re here too…”

“Crowley!” 

Aziraphale cried out, there, framed by the skies of heaven at the top of the narrow steps was the familiar black streak of demon. He was looking over his shoulder, turned away from where Aziraphale was struggling to run up the steps.

At hearing his name, however, Crowley span round, shock on his face.

They both froze.

From behind him streamed a hundred angels, some with wings raised, already greying and torn, the anger that shook their voices pushing the Light of God from them. They met the soldiers waiting in the courtyard with an almighty crash of metal and screams. 

Aziraphale and Crowley ignored it all, even the ones that ran straight through them, their wings too damaged to fly from the curses they spat at their ever-absent Creator. 

“Aziraphale!” Crowley recovered from the shock first, rushing down the steps to meet him halfway. He stopped on the step above him, grinning. “Angel, are you ever a sight for snake eyes-NRGK.”

The reason for Crowley stopping mid-sentence is quite apparent once you consider the fact he suddenly had an angel filled with the strength and glory of the Lord wrapping his arms around him and squeezing so hard Crowley heard the crick in his spine that he’d had ever since laying at a funny angle during his 100 year nap pop back into place.

The reason that Crowley did not immediately start speaking again was very obvious when you consider that this was the most contact that he had had with the angel… well… ever, really.

He half expected to burst into flames.

His face certainly felt hot enough.

“I’m so sorry!” Aziraphale shouted above the din, voice muffled by the fact he had his face crammed against Crowley’s shoulder. Crowley tried to move his arms, but they were pinned quite thoroughly to his sides. “I tried not to spy on you, but for some reason I couldn’t move away from you.”

“I… gurh… Angel, it’s okay, ‘snot your fault.” Crowley wriggled slightly in Aziraphale’s grip. With a start Aziraphale let go of him and jumped back so quickly Crowley had to miracle the size of the step to stop him from falling. Neither of them noticed this little detail, Aziraphale fussing with his bowtie as he blushed and looked away, Crowley blinking owlishly at him.

“No, I feel just terrible, and I couldn’t figure out what happened or why I couldn’t leave and-“ he babbled, nerves finally showing now that he wasn’t alone.

“Aziraphale!” Crowley shouted, shocking Aziraphale into silence. “It’s was Adam.”

“Adam?”

“Yes, Adam magic’d… miracled? Does he cast miracles? Does he even have faith in God? Suppose he has no reason to… Whatever, point is, he got you here, then I made him send me to come and get you. Just got to give him a shout on this,” He waved the glasses case to a bemused Aziraphale, “Then we’ll be back in the cottage drinking tea before you know it.”

Crowley opened the glasses case before Aziraphale had chance to question it and shouted at the white feather nestled inside, “Oi! Adam, I’ve got him. Pull us back, and make it snappy, you hear me?”

Silence. 

“Crowley…”

“Shush.” Crowley snapped, holding the glasses case to his ear and waving his hand at Aziraphale like he was making a phone call.

“Crowley, what was supposed to happen?” Aziraphale asked gently as Crowley looked up and froze.

“Oh, that is bloody weird.” He muttered as Aziraphale turned to see what he was looking at. Amongst the crowd still streaming from the door he saw the bob of unmistakable red hair. Crowley gaped as his past-self ran straight through him, white against black for a split second before being swallowed by the battle at the top of the steps. 

“…It is quite strange. Like seeing a photograph of someone before you knew them. That feeling of them not being quite finished yet.” Aziraphale said softly. Crowley raised an eyebrow at him as he continued, “Though I will say, white does look positively-“

“Don’t you dare!” Crowley snarled the same moment that Aziraphale said, “-awful on you, I’m sorry to have to say.”

Crowley blinked at him, “Oh, right. ‘Course.”

“Now, why were you shouting at that feather, my dear?” he asked cautiously, “And is that one of mine?” he finished, somehow managing to sound cautious and incredulous all at the same time.

Somewhere across time and reality a feather sat broadcasting the sounds of screaming angels and demons to an empty living room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so our heroes are reunited, but they're also in the middle of a war zone with no way home. So, they're not quite out of the woods yet! Also, that reunion was surprisingly light on angst... and I wouldn't do that to you ;)
> 
> Next time: Two old friends meet for the first time, and we find out what evil has beset Jasmine cottage in the absence of its guardian angel (and demon).


	10. You’re my kind of guy, Hessiel.

Gabriel’s shouts could only just be heard over the din while Micheal’s sword cut through wings almost lazily. Micheal never took her eyes off of her brother, cutting through the angels between them as she walked in unhurried steps through the crowd. 

Samael growled and strode forward to meet her, just to get pulled back by Bessiel. “Don’t!”

“What are you doing?” He hissed, never taking his eyes off of Micheal and wincing as another angel Fell through one of the gaping holes that now littered the floor.

“You can’t take them both on. Get out of here. There’s more of us that believe in you than just the ones here.” Bessiel hissed, dragging Samael under one of the high set windows.

“I can’t leave!” Samael yelled, rounding on her, eyes flashing red, “if I leave, you’ll all Fall!” 

Bessiel shook her head. “I’ll deal with Gabriel. Look at Micheal, she’ll follow you even If she has to tear Heaven apart with her bare hands.”

Samael looked uncertain. “What about the soldiers outside? You can’t fight them without me.” 

“We knew what we were getting in for when we came here.” Bessiel shrugged, “There are more of Us than just those in this room. Rally them, soak Heaven in blood, avenge us.” 

“Brother!” Micheal’s voice cut easily through the muffled scream of yet another angel as she grabbed her by the throat and tossed her through the smoking hole without looking. “You would flee like a coward?” She mocked.

“You would slaughter your brethren for my sins?” He hissed back. “If it is me you want,” He shook Bessiel off and ignored her protests, “then come and get me!” He screamed, launching himself up and through the window, raining glass on the angels below.

Micheal tsk’d and leapt up to follow him.

She had barely cleared the head height of the angels still fighting to get out of the narrow doorway when she yelled as she was dragged down again by hands on her legs. Her mighty wings beat, all six unfurling in a show of divine power that had the remaining angels cowering against the walls as she burst out of the shattered window.

She screamed, twisting to face her attacker, Hessiel gripping her legs tightly and looking slightly sheepish as he realised that he couldn’t do anything without letting go of her. She swung her sword down and Hessiel winced, completely defenceless he waited for the blow to fall. It never came. There was a metallic thud as the strike was parried, Hessiel opened his eyes to see a tall angel he hadn’t spoken to before grunting with effort of blocking the archangels strike with another golden banister, mottled wings almost as dark as his skin beating furiously to keep the blade from cutting off Hessiel’s head.

“Let go, you fool!” The other angel hissed, Hessiel nodded and quickly opened his arms – the shock of losing the extra weight threw Micheal upwards, her strike going wide and slicing effortlessly through the taller angel’s wing instead of his chest, he screeched falling towards the square, spinning as his other wing beat uselessly.

Micheal turned and sped off after her brother without a second glance, Hessiel folded his wings in and dove down to where the other angel had landed amongst the battalion below.

“Hey! Hey mate, you alright?” One of the soldiers had rushed over, kneeling by the other’s torn and useless wing. “What happened?” 

The angel groaned as he tried to get to his knees. The soldier quickly put his hand on his shoulder “Steady there, mate, let’s see what can be done about that wing first-“ Quick as a flash the other angel stabbed the twisted end of the banister through the angel’s chest, snatching the sword from his sheath as he fell in a heap at his feet. 

Hassiel landed roughly behind him as the other soldiers drew their swords.

“What are you doing?” He screeched.

“It’s already too late for us.” The other angel growled through gritted teeth. “Our wings are proof of that. I’m taking as many of these fuckers with me as I can. You in?” He passed Hessiel the sword as he withdrew the banister and hefted its weight in his hands, using a miracle to change the shape into something more like a mace.

Hessiel hesitated for a second, eyes flicking to his wings where black rotten ooze had started dripping from between the feathers. “Alright. I’ve always wanted to go toe to toe with these pompous pricks anyway.” He grinned, black blood leaking from a split lip where Michael had kicked him.

“I’m Ligimus, by the way.” The taller angel offered, turning to stand back to back with him.

“Hessiel.” Hessiel said, swinging the sword in a quick arc to test the weight, “Let’s kill these fuckers.”

“You’re my kind of guy, Hessiel.” 

The fight was short, but one of the most savage of the War. Survivors spoke of frenzied angels, eyes wide and feral, tearing through any angel that got close. Heads were crushed with mighty swings of that golden mace and as for the blond one…

Someone managed to get his sword out of his grip, and he’d sprang on them like a creature possessed, tearing out his throat with only his teeth. With each angel they killed the demon lost feathers by the handful, and their skin split open as black foul-smelling ooze splattered on Heaven’s floor.

Finally, a Cherubim rent the ground open with his flaming sword and they were cast down, the remaining soldiers left panting and frantically trying to miracle their wounds closed. 

Some of them were beyond saving, and what happens to a dead angel? 

If God knows, They’re not telling the likes of us.

\-------------------------

Golden sunlight warmed the country lane outside Jasmine cottage – because it was the anti-Christ’s not quite birthday and it knew better than to be anything less than perfect.

Unfortunately, Adam’s very human parents seemed to be immune to such occult forces – as all parents are immune to their children, but only when something dreadfully important and fun was happening.

Mr Young sighed the long-suffering sigh of every father who would rather be sitting with a cup of tea, watching the formula 1 on a sunny afternoon, “Adam we were quite clear, you needed to be back by 6 for your tea. It’s 6.30, and I’m sure Anathema would like to have her tea in peace, correct?” He looked pleadingly at Anathema.

Anathema hesitated. On one hand she had said the party would be over by 6, on the other if Adam left now Crowley and Aziraphale would be very likely stuck wherever it was they were.

Not that she could exactly explain that it was very possible that the lives (or at least lo-like life) of an angel and demon relied on Adam staying out after his curfew. 

Sensing Anathema’s trouble the Them all started talking at once, a mix of a child’s sure logic and shamelessly pleading whines. Mr Young made placating gestures with his hands, but they were stuck talking in circles.

After several minutes Newton managed to yell above the din, shocking everyone into silence.

“I said, it’s- it’s not ideal but the game of monopoly was started hours ago, but it is getting quite heated and it would be a shame to just pack it up.” Newton stammered and Anathema groaned. That was his big plan?

Mr Young blinked in surprise, “Well, monopoly is longer than anyone plans for but it’s hardly more important than a good solid meal.”

Newton wilted slightly, stammering whilst he tried to think of something else when Brian of all people piped up.

“No, it is really important! Adam had to get out of a rent payment so sold Pepper his bike! If he doesn’t get King’s Cross before anyone else, he’s going to lose his bike forever! It’s the last station he needs, and all.” Brian put on what he thought was an angelic best pleading face, but it looked more like he was vaguely constipated.

“I’m sure Pepper won’t mind cancelling the bet?” Mr Young looked doubtful even as he said it. 

Pepper took to the role instantly, crossing her arms and meeting Mr Young’s eyes defiantly. “I can’t cancel the bet. I doubled dared him.” The Them nodded sagely in unison. “And he promised, crossed his heart and everything!” Newton gasped and gestured to the assembled kids. 

“You can’t expect them to go back on a promise like that, can you?” He said elbowing Anathema who nodded imploringly, even if she did look vaguely bewildered.

“Really, Adam, what a foolish thing to bet, I really thought you knew better than this.” Mr Young looked over the pleading eyes of the assembled children and sighed. “It is very important that you learn the consequences of making such foolish bets, son. I expect you back by 8, we’ll put your tea in the oven.”

The Then cheered as Anathema and Newton tried to hide their sighs of relief. Mr Young set off down the lane but after a few paces he stopped and turned back.

“And Adam?” Everyone held their breath.

“Yes, Dad?” Adam said brightly, hiding his apprehension well.

“When you come home, I expect to see you on your bike.” Mr Young said with a smile, setting off again humming the opening bars of Match of the Day.

They watched him until he turned the corner then all rushed back inside, Brian sounding awed at Newton for his quick thinking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The friends that slay together, stay together. I couldn't resist a brief interlude with our Maggotty Husbands.
> 
> From here on out it is angst of the finest quality.
> 
> Next Time: Bessiel has a confession. What will be Gabriel's reply?


	11. One way or another, pain always leaves us

Gabriel watched as he threw another angel with rotting wings through one of the gaping holes as if he was a passenger in his own body. He had never considered the possibility of casting an angel out of Heaven before today. There was no place Outside of Heaven, after all. There was only Heaven, and nestled within the celestial embrace of God herself, Creation. Angels travelled freely between both realms, able to fly effortlessly to any place where the light of God reached - which was Everywhere. That was rather the point of existence, afterall. 

The mere idea of there being a place beyond Heaven suggested there were angels that would not be allowed in Heaven. Which suggested the possibility that angels could be punished - which implied that angels could do something Wrong. Which, finally, bizarrely, ridiculously, impossibly, could lead someone to consider the fact that God was not perfect in Her creations.

Which was ludicrous.

Gabriel worked tirelessly, he was a square shouldered, broad backed soldier of the Lord and the furious panicked angels broke upon him like a wave on the rocks of the shore. He was a General of God’s forces, Guardian of all her Children. Why else would an army be created if not to be used? Why else would he be able to cast down these creatures corrupted by Samael’s malice if it was not to purify and protect the rest of Heaven. His heart broke for every angel he cast down, just as it lifted with gladness for the angels he was saving from the corruption with every scream swallowed by the smoke. Gabriel’s eyes hardened. If these angels would raise a sword (or a banister, or in one creative case, a chair leg) to him, then they raised their weapons to the Almighty. 

And that could not be borne. 

Shaking his head to clear the last of his doubts, he looked up to see the basement was now empty and sighed.

Sheathing his sword, he walked towards the stairs, when a column of smoke shifted and revealed Bessiel standing a few steps up, a golden banister pointed down at his face. Gabriel grabbed at the sword on his hip, frozen as he stared up at her. Waiting for her to make the first move.

The two angels stood in silence for a beat, staring at each other, the stench of burning feathers drifting through the air.

Then Bessiel grinned, tossing the banister to one side. “Michael’s gone; you don’t need to pretend anymore.” Her voice light, musical, as the banister rolled to a stop in the far corner of the room.

Gabriel blinked once, then twice, hand still resting lightly on his sword hilt. “Pretend?” He asked, confused.

“You had to pretend you were against us with Michael here. Don’t worry, I’m sure the others will understand.” She said with a shrug, taking a step down the stairs.

Gabriel took a step back.

Bessiel stopped, confused.

“I know you agree with us. I know you.” She said quietly. “Don’t worry, we’ll win this fight – there’s a lot more of us than just this basement. Especially with two archangels on our side. We’ll overthrow Michael and her little soldiers, and we’ll rule Heaven – how She wants it run – by choices, not obedience and swords. Samael will look after Heaven better than Micheal ever could. First thing is to get rid of those humans.” Bessiel scrunched up her nose in disgust. “It’s obvious the whole human thing was a test to see who amongst us was clever enough to see it. And that’s you and me.” She grinned.

Gabriel raised an eyebrow, “That’s not what humans are Bessiel… I’ve seen the memos and none of them mentioned it being a test for us.”

Bessiel took another step forward, now on the lowest step she looked up at Gabriel through long lashes. “Why would She waste Free Will on creatures with such short lifespans? Why just humans and not all of her creations? Or even just one other creature? I’ve seen the plans for the others - Dolphins and monkeys and crows and oysters. They’re all smart enough to handle the Gift of Free Will, but only Humans are going to get it? Why? What makes them so special?”

“It’s not my job to ask questions, Bessiel.” Gabriel smiled a winning smile, “It’s my job to deliver answers.”

Bessiel smiled softly, “I know you want more than to be Her delivery boy. You want what we all want. A purpose that we chose ourselves. We can build something we want, by our own rules. With the people we choose.” She walked towards him as she spoke, footfalls clicking softly through the room. The sounds of the battle outside seemed to fade as she drew closer.

“I don’t want anything beyond how I can best serve Our Lord.” Gabriel said quietly, “And neither should you.” He made to step back but Bessiel grabbed his hand.

Turning his hand over slowly, so slowly, she laced their fingers together. Gabriel leant forwards despite a curious feeling in the region of his stomach that told him to run away. “You forget. I’ve heard you sing. I’ve sang with you.” Bessiel inched even closer, movements slow, so slow, like she was trying to capture one of her flutterby prototypes. 

“I don’t know what you mean.” Gabriel said, his normally strong voice no louder than a breath.

“Archangels don’t sing. And they don’t come to sing with the other circles. You’re the only one that comes to see the Choir.” Bessiel lifted Gabriel’s hand and placed it against her cheek. “You didn’t need to be there. No one told you to sing with me. But you did. Time and time again. I know you couldn’t say anything in front of the others, but don’t worry, I understood everything you couldn’t say.”

Gabriel stood frozen. He had embraced his brothers and sisters before, other angels, but nothing like this. His heart suddenly beating even faster than when he sparred with an entire battalion. He didn’t know it could beat like this. Why would it beat like this when he wasn’t even moving? 

Bessiel closed the last inch of space between them, the line of her body against his impossibly warm. He swallowed thickly. “Bessiel I’m not sure-”

“I wasn’t either, at first. I didn’t understand it. I was so confused.” She looked up at him, eyes wide and trusting. “All I knew is that I felt so…light when we sang together. Singing with the others felt like just another job. Just another Task, but every time you walked into the hall… I would feel so…warm.” She placed her hand gently over his heart, feeling its frantic thrum under her palm. “Right here. Just like this.” She smiled up at him, joy etched into every line of her face. “But I didn’t understand why. How could I? No one else felt like this, I could tell. It was my…our secret. I know you felt the same, why else would you keep coming back?”

Gabriel didn’t move, so she continued.

“And then I heard about Samael’s meetings.” She grinned. “And that was my chance to ask an Archangel about what was happening to us. So, I came to the meetings and listened to what he had to say. And slowly, we figured it out. It didn’t make sense until we found out about Free Will though. Now it makes perfect sense and we can be free.” She said softly, leaning her cheek into Gabriel’s palm. “We just have to find Samael and-”

“Bessiel, wait. I-I don’t follow.” Voice soft, he stayed embracing her as he had been arranged.

“Free Will. It lets us choose.” Bessiel’s smile didn’t falter.

“Choose to do what?” Gabriel asked slowly.

Bessiel giggled. “It’s so obvious it’s easy to miss. We’re angels – we’re built to love. It’s what we do, as easy as creatures breathe. We love God and all of Her creation equally. But that’s not Love at all, not really.” Bessiel slid her arms up and around Gabriel’s neck, ignoring the twitch of his shoulders as he tensed. “Loving everything is the same as loving nothing at all. We know that, you and I, that’s why we chose to Love only each other. That’s why you sang with me. That’s why I feel so happy whenever I see you. All we have to do is take Free Will for ourselves. Samael will show us how. We’ll destroy anyone that gets in our way, tear off their wings so they can’t follow us. Then we’ll be free to love each other and only each other, we won’t need anyone else after that.”

Bessiel smiled up at him, her Love, the one she chose above all others, finally, finally in her arms like she had dreamt about ever since she had figured out that beautiful warmth she felt whenever she saw him, sang with him, though of him, was a Love she chose for herself.

Suddenly she had the thought to push their lips together and as soon as she thought it was all she wanted. Pushing herself up onto her toes she angled her face towards him. His eyes stared into hers as he leaned down and whispered down to her.

“What in Her name are you talking about?” Gabriel didn’t move but he looked bewildered.

Bessiel froze.

“Seriously, what are you talking about?” Gabriel straightened, dislodging her arms from his shoulders carelessly as he spread his arms. “Why would anyone want to love just one thing? Love is our Gift from Her. It’s what we do. Why would anyone want to love one thing when you can love everything? That doesn’t make any sense.” 

Bessiel steeled herself. “It’s a strange concept, sure, but how else do you explain how you feel about me? How we feel when we sing together? Trust me, it makes perfect sense.”

Gabriel shook her off as he ran a hand through his hair, looking lost. “How I feel about you? I love you.”

Bessiel surged forward, “I love you too!”

Gabriel looked incredulous. “Of course you do.” Bessiel stopped, suddenly feeling cold despite the heat pouring out of the still smoking holes. Gabriel started pacing. “You said it yourself, we love everything equally. I love you, and I love Michael, for Her sake, I even love that platoon leader, what’s his name...” Gabriel turned back to her, a sympathetic look on his face that didn’t meet his eyes.

Bessiel swallowed the sudden lump in her throat. Were his eyes always this cold? 

“How awful it would be not to feel Love for everything, how lonely. Why would anyone choose that? To throw away this great Gift? You’d have to be stupid!” Gabriel laughed, a braying mocking sound.

Wings unfurled from her back, shaking with anger, hands curled into fists, Bessiel screeched at the floor. “It’s not stupid! How dare you?! If you’d only listen to me, you’d understand why I’m right.” She looked up, defiant and sure. She’d make him understand, even if she had to take him away and force him to understand, he had to-

He was staring at her wings, face twisted in disgust, sword pointed at her chest.

She froze, suddenly realising she could smell something other than smoke and charred feathers.

Bile rose in her throat as she smelt rot, she locked eyes with Gabriel, refusing to look at her outstretched wings. If she didn’t look then the rot wouldn’t be coming from her. As long as she didn’t look, they’d be clean and white like they’ve always been. 

“No,” voice barely a whisper, barely heard above the sounds of wings rustling as they stepped forwards, “help me. Pleazzze.” 

The look of shock on Gabriel’s face hardened to determination as he adjusted his grip on his sword. “I don’t know what’s going on with you, but don’t presume to know me. ‘I love you because I sang with you?’ I sing with lots of people. We’re a choir of angels, comes with the job description. I love everything – you’re not special.”

Bessiel screamed, lunging forwards, hands curled into claws. Gabriel yelped and sidestepped, swinging his sword round in a graceful arc.

The shorter angel suddenly felt their centre of gravity shift and tripped, body curling in itself on as blood dripped down their back.

“B…Bessiel?” Gabriel asked softly, voice suddenly unsure.

The figure on the floor twitched, then slowly staggered to their feet. They turned on him, stepping over the wings that lay on the floor, blood dripping from the severed joints.

A flash of gold and they leapt at him, the discarded bannister aimed right at his face.

He ducked and grabbed the furious angel by the throat, spinning and tossing them through the gaping hole.

Smoke curled around the hole, and no scream broke the silence.

Gabriel smoothed down his hair and strode towards the door. He’d tarried here too long. He had things to do.

There was a war on, after all. 

\---------

With no wings to carry them, Bessiel Fell.

Everything burned. The wounds on their back screamed in silent agony.

Pain has a strange way of stripping you of yourself. It eclipses every other need. True pain cannot be stopped by strength nor dignity.

True pain becomes what you are and what you will always be.

True pain stops time, stops gravity, stops light, and touch, and sound.

It leaves you suspended in eternity, only able to feel the pain licking every part of you. 

It tore through the falling angels. They forgot their Tasks, their names. They forgot the warmth of God’s grace. All they had left was pain. All they were was agony.

The creatures Fell. They wouldn’t be able to tell you how long Falling took. It could have been a second, it could have been an eternity. They knew nothing but the pain as God’s grace was torn from their every cell, their very souls.

As they struck the pits of boiling sulphur each and every one of them sobbed with relief.

\---------

Deep in the heart of Hell the sulphur pools swirled and churned. On the shore of one emerged a small bedraggled figure. Skin red and peeling, stumps of wings burnt right down to the ribs. They dragged themselves from the pool and collapsed, gulping down great ragged breaths.

They lay on their side, twisting to stare up at the roof of Hell. The hole they had fallen through may have just been lost in the shadows of the crags, but they knew it was gone, the way back sealed shut.

They forced themselves to breathe evenly as the pain faded, slowly, so slowly, but surely, the pain faded.

Pain fades. One way or another, pain always leaves us.

They forgot their name, the creature in their hair long ago burnt to ash and crumbled away. Even their rage had dimmed.

But one memory played on loop, the sneering voice cutting through the slowly healing wounds, exposing the flesh to the sulphur and salt of the air every time.

“I love everything – you’re not special.”

The figure rolled onto their front, curled into themselves and coughed wetly.

“I love everything – you’re not special.”

Salt from the cave floor clung to the open wounds on their back, the pain screaming through their flesh every time they breathed.

“I love everything – you’re not special.”

Time passed. More figures fell through the hidden holes in the roof, screaming as they hit the sulphur.

“I love everything – you’re not special.”

More creatures joined them on the shore. Silently locked in their own private prisons of pain.

“I love everything – you’re not special.”

The first to recover started to wail. They screamed and ranted at their creator. Cursing them for abandoning them. The creature that was once the angel Bessiel lay in silence.

“I love everything – you’re not special.”

With a shudder the wounds on their back squirmed and slid open, a soft rain of bulbous white maggots falling to the ground.

“I love everything.”

Fine. If you love everything let me show you how wrong you are. All those mortal and transient things. Their lives are so short. And then what happens to the corpses? The vessels left behind?

“You’re not special.”

No. I’m not. But neither are you. Not to me, not anymore. 

The maggots behind them squirmed and shivered, their backs splitting open in turn, just like their creator. From the corpses crawled the first flies. Tiny feet rubbed against each other, feeling out their faces, stretching their wings.

If you love everything then I’ll consume everything. You perfect, fussy creature. Let me test your love, your love that I wasn’t worthy for.

Everything dies. That’s how She designed it. Everything rots.

So I’ll consume it. All of it.

Behind them, the flies started their first flight, hundreds of small black bodies flashing with iridescent colours designed by an angel as they sang filled with joy, now staining the first black flies with the green of their jealousy.

Go on. Love them. All of them. Love them when they’re rotting. When the stench hits you. When their corpses wiggle and burst, liquid and filled with my children, my maggots. 

Love the flies that eat the rotten discarded things and then crawl across your skin.

Love all things. These disgusting and terrible things.

Love all things and still refuse to love me.

\---------

When Lucifer emerges from the sulphur after the War is lost, a short demon with flies on their shoulders is waiting to be the first to kneel before him. Cold and clinical. Unfeeling and just. They rule Hell with an iron fist and a disinterested air.

But on Earth the flies multiply and putrefy everything they touch.

And they touch everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "You're an angel. I don't think you _can_ do the wrong thing."


	12. You’ve never answered me, but give me this

Crowley and Aziraphale walked to the centre of the empty square. The fighting had spread quickly, leaving the flashpoint as eerily quiet as the eye of a hurricane. 

Aziraphale took a few steps towards the main hall, frowning. “If my memory serves me correctly, the Hall should be catching fire around now. I tried so hard to quell the flames before I was called to fight again, but it seems fire will always be fated to thwart me. Not unlike you, my dear.” He turned, blue eyes downcast, a self depreciating chuckle echoing hollow from his throat. “Crowley?”

Crowley was turning on the spot, serpentine eyes flicking from one pile of rubble to the next, breath coming in frantic gasps. 

“My dear, are you quite alright? Crowley!” Aziraphale started towards him, quick steps leaving no footprints in the dust and debris in the square. 

“Angel. Angel you need to leave now. I need-” Crowley swallowed thickly, scrambling to get the glasses case open, hands starting to shake so badly he almost dropped it.

Aziraphale clasped his trembling hands in his and whispered urgently. “My dear, what is it?”

Crowley tore his hands away, looking away from the shock and hurt on Aziraphale’s face as he shouted to the feather. “Adam. Book girl. We need out of here. NOW. Come on, comeon, _comeoncomeoncomeon_.”

Silence.

“Fat lot of help you all are!” Crowley snarled at the feather. “Right. Okay. Plan B.” Crowley snapped the case closed, angrily pushing his hair out of his face in an attempt to calm himself. 

“Crowley. You need to talk to me.”

“Yes… Yes! Right. Okay. Angel, you need to listen. And you need to trust me. Take the feather and get out of here. Pick a direction and run. You need to get out of here now, okay?” Crowley stuffed the case into Aziraphale’s coat pocket and tried to push him towards one of the unblocked paths out of the square.

“I absolutely will not! Crowley, I will not leave you here. How dare you even suggest I could?” Aziraphale was absolutely uncaring of how hurt he sounded.

“No, angel, we’ll talk later. I’ll find you, okay? Just you can’t be here now okay? Work with me. Please?”

Aziraphale gaped. “If this is some sort of heroic gesture, Crowley, I fail to see the reason for it!”

“Heroic? No, Aziraphale, I know what happens next and you cannot be here for that. I-”

There was the soft sound of falling debris and a harsh cough. Crowley paled, skin paper white.

“Fine. Okay. Right. We’ll do it your way, then.” He whispered. “Just… Aziraphale, just don’t.” the words caught in his throat as he turned away, voice so quiet Aziraphale barely caught the next words - but catch them he did, and they froze into his heart. “Don’t hate me for this.”

Into the square walked the angel soon to be known as the demon Crawley, frowning and trying to wipe the dust from his face.

Crowley walked up to him, coming to a stop around ten paces away, facing him down in a square filled with burning wings and smoking holes, scars marking the final passage of the Fallen.

The soft featured star hanger stared turning slowly, golden eyes flicking from one pile of rubble to the next, breath starting to come in frantic gasps. 

Aziraphale stood silent, suddenly wishing he had fled when he had the chance. Both Crowleys wore the same expression - anger and heartbreak. He suddenly realised what was about to happen, and why Crowley was so scared of him seeing this. 

He had questioned Crowley thousands of times throughout history. Admonished him for all sorts of choices and sins - but never really blaming him for any of it. As Crowley was quick to point out each time - he was a demon. Sinning and bad choices were kind of in the job description.

But this… This was him as an angel. Could Aziraphale forgive him when God Herself could not?

“Is... is this really happening?” The Angel asked, gold eyes turned skywards. For even in Heaven the Almighty is found above.

“You better believe it’s happening, kid.” The Demon replied, hip cocked but arms crossed to quell the trembling in his fingers.

“Are you letting this happen? Or are you making it happen?” The Angel asked the silent sky. “Is what we wanted so wrong? You’re giving it to the humans. And they’re going to live such short lives… Surely we’ll be better at choosing? Though, I suppose this,” He spread his arms, guesturing to the smoke and the rents in the ground, the torn wings and pools of angel blood, “this kind of proves that we’re a bit shit with it after all. Do you really think the humans will handle it any better?”

“What is all this? We didn’t act the way you wanted so you’re what, casting us out? I saw what Gabriel did - saw the look on his face. He had no idea he could do that. What happened? You looked up from your new toys, saw angels asking for more than you’ve given us and Saw That It Was Bad?”

“Didn’t You call us Your children? We’re screaming. We’re bleeding. I saw a flower crafter fixed to a wall with a sword through their wings. What are You doing? Help us! Oh, I know what You’ll say - You can do no wrong, right? This is all Your ‘great plan’ for Creation. Well I’m sorry if I don’t see why we have to go through all this for Your bloody mind games. How can us Falling help You, help Creation?”

“You’re not even listening, are You? You didn’t listen to Samael. You won’t listen to a nobody like me. Too many new important things to deal with. Only, right now, half Your children are burning. Do You even care? You don’t, do you? You can’t. You can’t care about us and watch this without doing anything. You can’t tell me that’s true.”

“How long will it last? Whatever it is You’re doing to them? Wherever the holes go. How long until we can come back? When will You be happy? How can we apologise when You won’t listen to us? Talk to us? When was the last time we saw You? Do You really plan to keep making things and walking away, never showing Your face, and expect us all to just get on with it? How can You expect us to be perfect when You haven’t taught us anything? We’re just doing what You wanted! Aren’t we? Can we even do anything else? How can You expect us to love You if You won’t-”

The Angel clapped a hand over his mouth, chest heaving as he fell to his knees.

The Angel shook as he lowered his hand and whispered. “Angels were created to Love God. This is what they are, at their deepest core, they are love and they are servitude. Without Love for You, what are we?”

“Because that’s what this is about, isn’t it?”

The Angel stopped, wincing back from the words dying on his tongue. Eyes wide and brimming with tears, staring up at the sky, white wings quivering behind him.

Slowly the Demon walked up to him, letting his coal black wings unfurl. Ignoring the whispered, “Crowley, dear.” from the angel behind him. Focusing only on the angel he once was in front of him.

“Go on.” Crowley whispered down at the kneeling angel. “You know you mean it.” A great sweep of ebony wings as they spread in defiance. “You know you mean it because I know I still mean it.” He tore the glasses off of his face, snake slit pupils as thin as spider silk in anger. “Sssssay it!”

“How could you let this happen if you didn’t want us to do it?” The angel looked up, eyes suddenly scared as he got to shaky feet.

“You knew. Didn’t you? This was always going to happen.” The angel stood tall, snow white wings arched and flared, his halo burning bright with silver and gold, the glint of stardust in blood red hair. “You say You love us, but You’ll throw us away to prove Your own ends. Will You even listen to us as we scream? You will, won’t You? You’ll watch us burn and claim You still love us. That’s not what love is, it can’t be. How can You Love us and create us this way? If this is Your love. If. If.” Crowley swallowed, squaring his shoulders. “If this is what You call love then You have no idea what Love is. If this is Your idea of perfection I want no part of it. So, what do You say? Well? You’ve never answered me before, but give me this one.” Crowley spread his arms wide, face turned up in the steady Heaven sunlight. “If this is Your Love then why did you make us unable to earn it? We’ll never be Good enough, because You made us so we will always fall short. The game is rigged, isn’t it? That’s not Love, it’s Cruel. That’s all it is. Cruelty. You’re playing with us. Chess pieces in a game we don’t have a hope of winning.”

A voice as soft as a whisper and as strong as the tides. “We were damned from the start and You knew that, didn’t You? You knew, You knew and You did nothing. Is that right? Do you expect me to be able to Love You now that I know?”

There was no thundercrack. Crowley had always thought that this moment deserved a thundercrack at least. Maybe an Earthquake or the sudden appearance of storm clouds, to really set the mood, but no all he got was a whimper from his own throat as his eyes suddenly felt like they were burning. He had reached up to rub them, protect them, he wasn’t sure, he just had to do something to try and stop the pain.

When he drew his hands away they were smeared with blood. Crowley stared into the eyes of his past self and snake slits stared back at him, the iris split and bleeding. He took one final shuddering breath.

“Yeah, I kind of figured that would be Your answer.” The angel whispered as his halo shattered, wings dropping white feathers on a ground black with soot. Through the agony of his Grace leaving him the angel staggered backwards, tripping through the nearest chasm.

Blinking through tears and blood he didn’t see an angel enter the square and run towards him, hand outstretched, as he fell to his knees by the hole. Black smoke poured into the soldier’s face and the angel’s hand grasps empty air. 

“Oh, that’s where I got to.” Aziraphale says softly, walking up to stand next to Crowley, who was staring into the hole, face carefully held free of any expression. 

“What?” Crowley shook his head as if pulling himself physically from his thoughts. “Wait. That was _you_?” He gaped at him. 

“It would seem that I wasn’t quite quick enough. You always did go too fast for me, Crowley.” He said gently, taking Crowley’s hand and drawing him in a much gentler hug that last their last frantic encounter.

There was a long pause.

“Angel?”

“Yes, Crowley?”

“Not that this isn’t, you know, nic-great and all, but _why_ are you hugging me?”

“You just relived a traumatic event. I would have thought I was helping? I do apologise.” Aziraphale’s face turned pink as he tried to hastily pull away, cringing with the thought of making a fool of himself.

Crowley pulled him back in with a harsh jerk. “I didn’t say, 'stop'.” He muttered into Aziraphale’s soft curls. (And oh my Someone Crowley had always imagined them to be soft, but not this soft. How was he supposed to never touch it again now that he knew how bloody _soft _it was?)__

__Peace reigned for just a moment then Aziraphale was pulled sharply out of his arms._ _

__And in the direction of the hole where Crowley had just Fallen._ _

__Where he was still falling, very fast and very far away, dragging Aziraphale after him._ _

__Aziraphale yelped as he realised what was happening, clutching at a slab of fallen wall, grunting from the effort of fighting the force trying to drag him away._ _

__Crowley snatched the glasses case out of the angel's pocket and yelled at the feather. “ADAM NOW, WE NEED TO GET OUT OF HERE, NOW!”_ _

__He grabbed at Azirapahle’s hands just as the boulder cracked under his grip, clutching tightly as they were dragged through the smoke and started to Fall._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for coming on this journey with me, we're almost at the end. Only one more chapter to go.


	13. And so ends the world of Anthony J Crowley

Adam stumbled through the last part of the second awful poem as Anathema set fire to the herbs (for effect). 

A beat of silence filled the cottage and then the two corporations on the couch suddenly jerked and fell to the ground with an unbecoming series of yelps and another cloud of chalk dust.

Anathema rushed over as Crowley groaned, rolling to his side to kneel over Aziraphale.

“Angel… Aziraphale, are you alright?” He asked hesitantly.

A groan as Aziraphale sat up, coughing slightly from the chalk.

“Yes, my dear. I’m perfectly fine. Just a little turned around.” He looked up, blinking owlishly at Anathema and the others. “Oh good! It looks like we’re back in Tadfield. That’s a relief.”

The two of them sat on the floor, awkwardly leaning against the base of the sofa, legs sprawled across the now smudged summoning circles.

Aziraphale looked up. “Adam.” He said in a voice that was all soft understanding and stern edges. The sort of voice of an understanding Headmaster that was about to say how disappointed they were, and make the unruly child wonder if the cane would be a better punishment. It tended to hurt less, at least.

“Um… Yes, Mr Aziraphale?” Adam said, putting on his most winning smile, the one that usually got every adult (except his father, of course) to forgive him for whatever mischief he’d gotten himself into.

Of course, Aziraphale wasn’t technically an adult as he was an ageless occult (sorry, ethereal) being of vast power.

But he did soften slightly. He wasn’t heartless, afterall.

“Next time you wish to send me careening into a warzone, be a dear and ask me first, would you? That’s twice I’ve found myself surrounded by soldiers on your behest and I rather don’t want to make a yearly habit of this.” Aziraphale caught Adam’s eye and held it steady until Adam nodded.

“Sorry Mr Aziraphale. And sorry, Mr Crowley.” Adam said quietly, looking down and scuffing more of the chalk with his shoe.

“Oh, don’t give me the wobbling lip routine - there’s no harm done.” Aziraphale said brightly, beginning the complicated process that all middle aged bodies, both mortal and otherwise, have to go through to get to their feet after sitting without the aid of chairs. 

With a grunt he helped Crowley up as well and turned around. “Just be a little more considerate of the fact you seem to have reality shifting powers of levels unseen since the Creation, would you?” He said with a smile and twinkling eyes.

Adam giggled.

“Now I do believe you’re late for your supper - go on, get going. I do hope you enjoy your birthday next weekend, dear.” He said kindly.

“Sure thing, Mr Aziraphale! You should come back for Hallowe’en! Bye!”

With that Adam ran out of the cottage, dog yapping at his heels and the Them following behind.

Crowley blinked. “Really. We can’t punish them, not even a little bit?”

Aziraphale, now that the children were out of sight, sat down heavily on the sofa, wiping a hand down a face that suddenly looked exhausted. “Maybe another time, my dear, for now I feel rather drained.”

Anathema had already grabbed a mop to start cleaning up the chalk, as Newt filled the silence with the one thing he knew soothed all ills and solved all problems.

“Tea, anyone?”

Aziraphale beamed as he accepted his mug. Crowley reached for his with a lot less interest until he saw Newt’s not-so-subtle nod the the slightly-less-full-than-it-was-a-moment-ago bottle of whiskey on the mantelpiece, then he swigged his with a grin.

\-----

After the tea was drunk the unavoidable awkward silence set in and Aziraphale and Crowley made their polite, but hasty, exit.

The silence in the Bently is suffocating. A living, clawing thing. Unable to stand it, Aziraphale opens his mouth to speak, only for Crowley to step on the accelerator until he closes it again.

The Bentley’s headlights sweep down country side roads - pitch black shadows bursting into yellow green bushes as the monstrous black steel car roars past. Aziraphale bites his lip to stop from saying anything. 

Now was not the time for conversations about driving preferences.

After ten torturous minutes Crowley reaches for the radio, finger jabbing the console so hard Aziraphale is certain he hears the engine groan in protest. 

The radio makes no sound.

Snarling, he grabs the dial and starts twisting, but channel after channel is silent.

Not even Queen plays.

“Crowley.” Aziraphale forces the word out.

“Don’t.” Crowley spat.

“But, my dear boy.” Aziraphale sighed.

“I’m warning you, Azirapahle!” A growl from behind dark lenses, face not turning from the road.

“Oh, really, this is ridiculous. We’re going to have to talk about this eventually.” The angel flapped his hands in distress. 

“We don’t have to do anything! Least of all talk about this. It never happened. Agreed?” Crowley waved his hand dismissively, pushing his foot down, pedal sitting flush with the floor of the car.

“I just don’t see why you won’t let me apologise!” Aziraphale all but wailed.

Crowley slammed on the brakes, screeching to a halt in the middle of the woods. (Neither Angel nor Demon were shunted forward, or indeed thrown straight through the windshield, by this action. Cars were supposed to carry people comfortably from A to B, with none of this swaying and careening nonsense, so, not expecting to move, neither did. Also the Bentley learnt very quickly that, no matter how her Demon drove, his Angel was NEVER to be jostled.)

“You? Apologise? For what!?” Crowley stared at him, jaw dropping.

“That’s ever so kind of you, dear. But we both know I was… Well… What you had to see of me. I.” Aziraphale cringed, fussing with the worn velvet of his waistcoat. He swallowed thickly and looked up, fixing Crowley with an ice blue stare. “I was dreadful. I know I was. I had no way of knowing what would happen to the Fallen. And to my shame.” Aziraphale’s voice dropped to a whisper as Crowley felt his jaw hanging open. “To my shame, I never even thought to ask. I don’t expect your forgiveness, I have done nothing to earn it, but let me try to apologise, at least?”

In the silence that followed Crowley’s body suddenly caught up with his thoughts and he span in his seat to face Aziraphale properly.

Aziraphale flinched, and Crowley felt shame colour his cheeks.

“No. No, Angel, I’m not mad at you. I don’t… You’ve done nothing to apologise for, okay?” He said softly.

“You’re not listening, I’m apologising for doing nothing!” Aziraphale snapped.

“Aziraphale, you did your job - you saw the chaos back then. We both know if you’d done anything else you would have been thrown to the Pit too. And that. You’ll never deserve that. Okay?” He lifted a hand as if to lay it on Aziraphale’s arm, then lost his nerve and laid it back down on his seat.

“Oh, that’s. That’s wonderful for you to say.” Aziraphale smiled, still worried, but no longer afraid. “But that’s not quite what I mean. And, oh my dear - promise not to interrupt? I learnt about your past today, that’s true, but I learnt a lot more about Our past, as well. I need to tell you what I’m thinking-what I’m _feeling_ and despite my hoarding of books and poetry it’s very difficult for me to find the words. So please, don’t say anything until I’m done, Crowley. Can you promise me that?”

Crowley nodded dumbly, letting his glasses slide down his nose, looking Aziraphale squarely in the eye.

After the day they’d had, it really was the least he could do.

Aziraphale’s voice starts soft, but as each sentence forms in the air between them he sets his shoulders and meets Crowley’s eyes. He was the Guardian of the Eastern Gate, Platoon Leader in the First War, and proud Devourer of the Written Word ever since humans first made scratches on clay. The day had finally come where he would need all the courage and eloquence that he’d been cultivating throughout his long life.

“Please don’t take this the wrong way dear, but I used to pity you.” Aziraphale held up a hand to stop Crowley’s squawk of protest. “Only a little! Before I really understood who you were. I pitied all the demons - I suppose I had to. I couldn’t imagine, couldn’t fathom, a world outside Heaven, outside of serving God, so of course I thought those that had lost their Grace had to be pitiable things. Then we met, again and again, and we talked. And you showed all these emotions that Heaven said you never could. You were sad for the people who were to die in the flood. You showed the Son all the kingdoms of the world. Not to show off on what he was missing, but to show him what he was dying for. All the angels in Heaven could have pondered for a thousand years and not come up with such a blessing, such a kindness.” 

Crowley made a move as if to speak again and Aziraphale silenced him with a hand on his arm. And a raised eyebrow that definitely said ‘you promised not to interrupt.’

“And I realised, slowly, over many years, as we grew closer, there was nothing to pity. Oh my dear, I had to keep my distance because of fear of Heaven. First for myself, and then for you - as you said back in France, your side don’t send rude notes. You kept trying to get closer, and I had to keep pushing you away, for your own safety.”

“At least, that’s what I told myself.” Aziraphale said softly, almost to himself, before leaning further towards Crowley, stopping half way between the seats. “I forced myself to see you the way Heaven told me, dancing around our Arrangement, our friendship, always keeping that distance between us.”

“But now, oh, oh now that we’re on own own side I’m finally starting to see you for what you are. Really, truly are. Beyond what Heaven and what Hell have tried to force you to be. What they have tried to paint you as. That you are yourself, and shouldn’t be anything else. You’re no more the angel you were than you are the demon they told you to be. You’re you. Wonderfully, beautifully. You.”

Crowley swallowed and swayed forwards, just an inch or so, but close enough for their breaths to mingle in the two remaining inches between them.

“And I, oh my dear. Forgive me, I’ve wasted so much time. I’ve spent the past 6000 years trying to be that tin soldier you saw back in the War, doing everything I could to be the perfect angel, hiding my real self. Oh sure, I indulged in good food and better wine, and truly marvelous company.” At that Aziraphale’s eyes twinkled and Crowley had to remember to breathe. “But I was denying my real desires. The big ones, the ones that mattered. Out of fear. My dear, I’ve wasted 6000 years being terrified. Of not being a good angel, of falling, of letting myself want anything beyond my Duty.”

“Of.” Aziraphale fell silent, all the words of the world failing him.

The seconds dragged on, neither remembering to breathe. Eyes locked on each other’s.

“Angel…” Crowley started, drawing a breath to keep speaking.

Aziraphale panicked, his words leaving him in a rush. “Of wanting you the way I did.”

Crowley’s sunglasses fell off his nose with a clatter, “You what!?” 

“Couldn’t you tell, dear?” Aziraphale chuckled, both of them ignoring the sunglasses sliding deep into the footwell. “Every tiny step I took off my, literally, God given path, was because of you, for you. I could never match your pace. But I always followed as quickly as I could. Weighed down by the fear that Heaven would find out and reprimand me, that Hell would find out and destroy you. I took so long to see the truth. My blasted cursed hope blinding myself to what stood right in front of me.”

“You, my dear, my dearest. My only One. You know what I want before I do, you are what I want ever after. We’re on our own side. We always were. I was just weighed down by responsibility to a side that never felt tied to me. But you were there. For millennia, swooping in when I was in trouble, quick to fall into step with me when I tentatively pursued my own happiness. For so long, everything I am has revolved around you, like a planet around a star. But I could never see it, from where I stood it looked like you revolved around me. Oh, you were quick to tempt me away from the Path, but so many times I sat and waited for you to lead me astray. But now we have nothing to tether us but ourselves. But each other.”

“And, Crowley, my dear, I never want to walk any path where you’re not walking by my side.” Aziraphale beamed at him, practically glowing with the relief of finally being able to speak clearly.

“Oh. Right, um. Well. That’s. A thing. Yeah.” Crowley stammered, yellow eyes wide.

“There’s no need to answer right away, dear, I know this is a lot to spring on you, especially after the day we’ve had, if you need time I’m more than happy to wait.” Aziraphale said softly, only the tiniest hint of doubt showing around his eyes.

This seemed to snap Crowley out of his stupor.

“No! I mean, yes. I mean.” Crowley took a deep breath he both didn’t need, and really, really needed. The atmosphere in the car was tense and so full of feelings he could barely think straight.

“I never. I never blamed you for what happened. I never could. Not even after I saw it was you right outside.” Crowley grabbed Aziraphale’s hand, the angle awkward and his grip too tight.

Aziraphale thought it felt perfect.

“And I never blamed you for pushing me away. I mean, I was angry about it at the time, but I see now that you had to. You’re probably the only reason we lived to see the apocalypse. Satan knows if it was down to me we would have got caught with our togas around our ankles back in Rome.” Crowley suddenly cut himself off, face frozen in fear.

“Rome. Dear? Really? That long?” Aziraphale gasped, clutching at Crowley’s hand when he’d tried to pull it away.

Crowley deflated as Aziraphale ran his thumb over his knuckles. “Yeah, angel, since Rome. ‘Snot my fault. Have you seen you eat an oyster?” Crowley looked up and Aziraphale’s heart soared to see a teasing glint in his eye. “‘Let me tempt you’ you really don’t do things by halves, do you?”

Aziraphale chuckled and pulled Crowley forwards, the demon willingly sliding into the angel’s space.

“No, not anymore, my Love.” Aziraphale smiled as he kissed him softly. Crowley allowed one moment to appreciate the Angel’s hair lit in gold from the Bentley’s interior light, before letting his eyes fall closed and relaxing into the kiss.

They stayed that way for longer than either of them would have guessed - in fact, until the angry honk of a car behind them broke them out of their embrace.

Crowley growled and started the car as Aziraphale chuckled.

“So, my dear, your place or mine?” He said sweetly, laughing as Crowley yelped and slammed his foot down on the pedal.

And if they got to London in record time, well, Aziraphale was rather too busy to comment on it after that.

And so ends the world of Anthony J Crowley, former demon of Hell, and here starts the world of Anthony J Crowley, current demon of whatever he likes, really. And he likes- _loves_ a certain angel very, very much. And loving said angel suited him rather well, if you had asked him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's a wrap.
> 
> This is my first published fic in ten years, and the longest complete thing I've ever written. Thank you so much to each and every one of you that got this far. I'm genuinely feeling a little emotional, as daft as that is! 
> 
> Thank you for every view, every kudos, and every comment. I've been struggling with confidence in my writing for years, and seeing the responce to this fic has been amazing. You've given me my mojo back!
> 
> Until next time, kids - whatever you do, do it with style!

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fic on Ao3... this is where I point to the kudos/comment button and wiggle my eyebrows meaningfully, isn't it?
> 
> In all seriousness, comments, crits, and conversation are welcome! Love it? Hate it? Let me know!


End file.
